V 


OF  'CALIF.  LIBRABY,  LOS  AHGELES 


DAUNAY'S    TOWER 


a 


BT 


ADELINE    SERGEANT 

AUTHOR    OF 
•*A    LIFE    SENTENCE,"      "A    KISK    IN    THE    WORLD,"    ETC.     ETC. 


F.      M.     BUCKLES      &      COMPANY 
9  AND   II    EAST  SIXTEENTH  STREET,   NEW  YORK 


LONDON:      F.      V.      WHITE      &      COMPANY 

1901 


Copyright,    1900,  by 
F.  M.   BUCKLES  &  COMPANY 


Vtuntfs   Tiwtr 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  AT  THE  TOWER 7 

II.  THE  DOCTOR'S  VISIT 16 

III.  FRIENDS  OR  FOES  ? 26 

IV.  ANNABEL 36 

V.  A  DISTANT  RELATION 45 

VI.  FATHER  AND  DAUGHTER 54 

VII.  JOHN  DAUNAY'S  PLAN 63 

VIII.  ANNABEL'S  DECISION 73 

IX.  DR.  LECHMERE'S  MEDITATIONS 83 

X.  A  Bio  BRIBE 93 

XI.  THE  GREAT  RENUNCIATION 103 

XII.  "Jos" 112 

XIII.  IN  THE  CONSERVATORY 121 

XIV.  ONTHE  HILLS 133 

XV.  MRS.  WYCHERLY'S  PLANS 144 

XVI.  RETROSPECTIVE 153 

XVII.  MR.  CLISSOLD'S  OPINION 165 

XVIII.  AT  THE  DAUNAY  ARMS 175 

XIX.  JOCELYN'S  DEFEAT 185 

XX.  A  FRIENDLY  SUIT 195 

XXI.  THE  VIEWS  OF  YOUNG  AND  OLD 206 

5 


6  Contents. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII.  LENORE 217 

XXIII.  "  A  COUSIN  AND  A  FRIEND  " 226 

XXIV.  RIVALS 236 

XXV.  NEAR  RELATIONS 246 

XXVI.  BETHA'S  WORK-BOX 255 

XXVII.  A  TEMPTRESS 264 

XXVIII.  Two  CONSPIRATORS 275 

XXIX.  MRS.  WYCHERLY'S  EXPEDITION 287 

XXX.  ST.  ANDREW'S-ON-THE-HILL: 297 

XXXI.  THE  ENTRY  IN  THE  BOOK 306 

XXXII.  IN  THE  HOUR  OF  NEED 316 

XXXIII.  THE  DOUBTS  OF  JOCELYN  DAUNAY 325 

XXXIV.  IN  WHICH  JOCELYN  DEFEATS  HIS  OWN  ENDS.  . .  337 
XXXV.  NURSE  LYNCH 349 

XXXVI.  DANGER  AHEAD 358 

XXXVII.  THE  TREACHERY  OF  LENORE 367 

XXXVIII.  VENGEANCE 376 

XXXIX.  FOR  FAREWELL 385 

XL.  THE  END  CROWNS  ALL.  .  .  395 


DAUNAY'S  TOWER. 


CHAPTER  I.    i 

AT   THE   TOWER. 

"Ix's  a  wild  neet,  missis,"  called  a  laboring  man  to 
a  figure  that  passed  him  on  his  way.  A  woman's  figure  he 
made  it  out  to  be,  but  the  darkness  wrapped  her  round  aj 
with  a  garment,  and  he  could  not  see  her  face.  He  was 
toiling  up  the  hill,  and  she  was  coming  down,  and  the 
wind  was  raging  furiously  round  every  corner,  and  hurl- 
ing the  branches  of  the  sparsely  planted  trees  back- 
wards and  forwards  until  they  seemed  ready  to  snap  in 
twain,  while  every  now  and  then  a  dash  of  rain  accom- 
panied the  fitful  but  violent  gusts.  It  was  difficult  to 
find  the  way,  but  a  row  of  white  stones  emphasized  the 
path ;  and  the  man  who  mounted  and  the  woman  who 
descended  the  bare  hillside  were  alike  accustomed  to 
pick  their  steps  in  difficult  places  of  this  kind. 

"A  wild  night  indeed,"  she  answered  back  ;  and  at 
the  sound  of  her  voice  the  man  turned  round,  and  tried 
in  vain  to  penetrate  the  depths  of  darkness  with  his 
eyes.  Then  he  shook  his  head,  and  went  heavily  on 
his  way. 

"  Why,  'twere  Jane  Arnold,"  he  murmured,  as  he 
bent  his  shoulders  again  to  the  ascent — "  Jane  Arnold, 
as  keeps  herself  allus  to  herself,  an*  niver  has  a  word 

7 


8  Daunay's  Tower. 

for  nobody.  Jane  Arnold,  on'  her  way  to  the  valley, 
an',  for  aught  I  know,  to  Daunay's  Tower,  at  dead  o' 
night.  What  in  the  world's  the  meaning  o'  that,  I'd 
like  to  know  ?  " 

But  there  was  no  one  to  answer  him,  and  he  went  on- 
ward to  his  wife  and  his  own  fireside  ;  while  Jane  Arnold 
toiled  down  to  the  valley  and  to  the  house  of  which  he 
had  spoken  as  Daunay's  Tower. 

It  was  the  popular  name  which  the  natives  of  that 
wild  Cumberland  dale  had  given  to  a  building  raised, 
chiefly  in  the  last  generation,  by  a  man  who  would  fain 
have  ennobled  his  family  and  reared  a  dwelling-place 
worthy  of  a  race  of  kings. 

He  was  a  wealthy  man,  this  Stephen  Daunay,  and  he 
called  his  house  Bellavista,  or  some  such  foreign  and 
new-fangled  name,  which  was  an  offense  to  the  inhab- 
itants of  High  Rigg  Dale.  In  spite  of  the  threats  and 
persuasions  of  the  builder  and  owner,  the  dales-folk  took 
and  kept  their  own  appellation,  and  the  house  was  always 
Daunay's  Tower,  and  sometimes  Daunay's  Folly,  when 
they  wanted  to  be  severe.  There  was  a  certain  propriety  in 
calling  it  Dannay's  Tower,  for  the  nucleus  of  the  build- 
ing was  an  ancient  keep,  which  now  stood  at  a  corner  of 
the  modern  house.  It  was  a  square  stone  tower,  with  an 
old  flight  of  steps  outside,  leading  to  a  small  upper  room 
not  often  used.  The  lower  part  of  the  tower  likewise  con- 
tained a  single  room,  .which  could  be  entered  by  a  nar- 
row door  of  a  singularly  massive  and  prison-like  ap- 
pearance. The  country  folk  declared  that  this  tower 
had  formerly  been  used  for  prisoners,  and  there  were 
gruesome  stories  of  the  cruelties  that  had  once  been 
practised  within  those  grim  walls  by  the  lords  of  High 
Rigg  Dale. 


At  the  Tower.  9 

The  architect  had  made  some  effort  to  approximate 
the  style  of  the  new  house  to  that  of  the  tower  ;  but  the 
Daunay  of  that  day  had  not  approved  of  his  attempt,  and 
had  insisted  on  the  carrying  out  of  his  own  vagaries.  The 
consequence  was  that  Bellavista,  as  he  called  it,  was  as 
fantastic  a  pile  of  stone  as  could  be  seen  on  English  soil. 
It  was  a  jumble  of  styles.  A  Moorish  gallery,  a  Turkish 
minaret,  an  Italian  veranda,  with  a^  mixture  of  Nor- 
man, Renaissance,  and  pseudo-Gothic  details,  made  the 
place  a  specimen  of  barbarism  as  oddly  picturesque — 
by  accident — as  it  was  bizarre. 

On  a  dark  and  stormy  night,  however,  the  great 
building  could  be  seen  only  as  a  dark  mass  standing  up 
against  the  gloomy  sky.  The  newer  part  of  the  house 
was  entirely  unillumined  by  gleam  of  lamp  or  fire  ;  but 
in  the  top  room  of  the  tower  a  faint  light  seemed  to  be 
burning,  and  another  beam  came  from  a  small  lamp 
that  hung  from  an  iron  rod  over  the  narrow  door. 

Jane  Arnold,  who  had  business  with  the  master  of 
Daunay's  Tower,  looked  up  and  down  the  solid  mass  of 
masonry  with  a  half-puzzled,  half-indignant  air.  She 
had  come  all  the  way  from  her  house  on  Cross  Fell,  at 
half-past  ten  o'clock  on  a  stormy  night,  and  now  it 
seemed  as  though  the  place  were  deserted,  as  though 
she  might  wait  and  wait  in  vain  for  the  commission  with 
which,  as  she  understood,  she  was  to  be  charged. 

It  was  Mr.  Lechmere,  the  doctor,  who  had  brought 
her  John  Daunay's  message.  She  did  not  like  Mr. 
Lechmere.  He  was  a  sharp-faced,  sallow,  keen-eyed 
young  man,  with  a  bitter,  almost  savage  tongue,  and  an 
irritable  disposition.  He  was  clever,  no  doubt,  but  he 
could  be  rough  and  profane  in  speech  sometimes  ;  and 
Jane  Arnold  was  a  respectable  person,  of  a  sober  and 


io  Daunay's  Tower. 

religious  turn,  and  she  disliked  profanity.  There  were 
rumors  about  Mr.  Lechmere,  too,  which  were  not  to 
his  credit.  People  said  that  he  had  committed  some 
crime,  some  dishonorable  act,  which  had  exiled  him 
from  the  world.  It  was  whispered  that  he  had  been  in 
prison.  No  one  knew  what  his  medical  qualifications 
were,  or  whether  he  had  any  qualifications  at  all ;  he 
had  simply  appeared  in  the  neighborhood,  set  a  red 
lamp  at  the  door  of  the  little  house  he  rented,  bought 
a  horse  and  gig,  and  announced  himself  as  a  doctor — 
"  Quite  ready  to  kill  or  cure,  according  to  your  own 
preference  and  the  money  you  pay,"  he  had  remarked, 
in  cynical  fashion,  when  he  was  sent  for  in  an  emer- 
gency to  his  first  patient.  The  good  folk  on  the  fells 
were  shocked  by  this  reckless  manner  of  speech,  and  for 
some  time  the  young  man  had  an  up-hill  battle  to  fight, 
and  it  was  reported  that  he  "  well-nigh  clemmed"  one 
winter.  But  of  late  things  had  gone  better  with  him. 
Mr.  Dannay  had  called  him  in  two  or  three  times  during 
his  rather  rare  visits  to  the  Tower.  Some  of  the  county 
people  had  condescended  to  employ  him.  There  seemed 
no  reason  why  he  should  not  work  up  a  practise  and 
earn  a  decent  living  among  the  Cumberland  hills. 

"  If  I  hadn't  had  a  notion  that  John  Dannay  wanted 
me,  I'd  noan  ha*  come  out  to-night,"  said  Jane  Arnold. 
She  had  a  touch  of  dialect  in  her  speech,  but  it  had 
been  modified  by  the  circumstances  of  her  life,  and  was 
often  scarcely  noticeable.  "  That  young  Lechmere 
wouldn't  dare  to  make  free  with  his  name  and  bring  me 
all  this  way  for  a  joke,  though  I  hear  he  isn't  particular 
what  he  does  when  the  fit's  on  him.  And  I  was  not  to 
knock,  said  he  ;  I  was  to  bide  by  the  stone  steps  until 
Dauny  or  he  came  out  to  speak  to  me.  Well,  I'm  here, 


At  the  Tower.  n 

and  the  rain's  coming  on  and  the  wind  blowing  :  what's 
agate,  I  wonder  ?  " 

At  that  moment  the  narrow  door  opened,  and  a  tall 
spare  figure  stood  revealed  in  the  aperture,  against  a 
background  of  the  lighted  lower  room.  "  Is  that  you, 
Jane  Arnold  ?  "  Mr.  Daunay  said. 

"  Yes,  sir,  it's  me,"  said  Jane.  "  The  doctor  told  me 
you  wanted  me,  and  I've  come  down  fell-side  in  the  wind 
and  rain  to  do  your  bidding." 

"You  were  always  faithful,  Jane,  like  your  forbears 
to  mine.  There's  been  an  Arnold  and  a  Daunay  side 
by  side  for  three  generations  at  the  least." 

"I'm  the  last  of  the  Arnolds,"  said  Jane,  rather 
stolidly. 

"  And  you  think  I  am  the  last  of  the  Daunays,  do 
you  ?  "  said  the  man,  with  a  dry  laugh.  "  But  it  doesn't 
follow  in  my  case,  Jane,  as  it  does  in  yours." 

"  Well,  John  Daunay,  I  didn't  come  here  at  half-past 
ten  o'  night  to  talk  about  our  two  families  at  the  door," 
said  Jane  Arnold,  in  strong,  sensible  tones.  "  I  should 
like  to  get  inside  and  warm  myself  at  the  stove  if  it's  all 
the  same  to  you.  My  feet  are  as  wet  as  wet,  and  I  can 
hear  what  you  say  inside  as  well  as  out." 

"You've  a  right  to  speak,  Jane,"  said  the  master 
of  Dauuay's  Tower,  with  a  little  irony  in  his  tone. 
"  You've  to  some  extent  a  right  to  enter  ;  but  all  the 
same  I  mean  to  keep  you  out.  Stand  where  you  are  ; 
you  are  protected  from  rain  and  wind  by  that  overhang- 
ing ledge,  and  a  touch  of  cold  won't  hurt  a  woman  of 
the  fells." 

"  I  don't  suppose  it  will.  But  you  are  usually  a  bit 
more  hospitable  to  me." 

She  pulled  her  cloak  closely  round  her,  and  waited 


12  Daunay's  Tower. 

to  hear  what  he  had  to  say.  Mr.  Dan  nay  came  ont  of 
the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  him,  standing  bare- 
headed in  the  cold  night  air,  with  the  light  of  the  lamp 
thrown  full  on  his  ashen  face.  Jane  noticed  the  death- 
like pallor,  and  wondered  what  had  brought  it  there. 
But  she  was  too  proud  to  ask.  The  reticence  of  the 
North  Country  was  strong  within  her.  She  would  know 
only  what  she  was  told. 

As  she  waited,  however,  a  sound  that  came  to  her  ears 
startled  her  in  spite  of  herself.  It  was  the  long-drawn 
wailing  of  a  little  child.  She  remembered  an  old  story 
that  she  had  often  heard — the  story  of  a  mother  and  child 
who  had  died  in  this  same  tower,  many  centuries  ago, 
from  slow  starvation  :  the  tyrant-husband  having  locked 
her  into  that  upper  room  in  punishment  of  some  supposed 
unfaithfulness,  and  then  ridden  away  and  been  killed 
in  a  brawl,  so  that  his  victims  were  never  liberated  until 
Death  turned  the  key.  The  baby's  crying  was  still  sup- 
posed to  be  heard  round  about  the  Tower  on  stormy 
nights,  and  the  sound  boded  no  good  to  those  who 
heard  it. 

"  The  ghost-child,"  said  Jane,  below  her  breath.  If 
she  had  been  a  Catholic  she  would  certainly  have  crossed 
herself.  "  What  does  that  mean  ?" 

"  Aye,  what  indeed  ?  "  said  Mr.  Daunay.  "  Never 
mind  the  ghost,  Jane.  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me." 

She  glanced  up  at  him  shrewdly,  this  homely  country 
woman,  with  her  bright  brown  eyes  and  apple  cheeks. 
He  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  square  frame  and  the  lean, 
hard  look  of  one  who  has  known  how  to  labor  and  to 
endure.  He  had  gained  a  fortune  by  speculation,  and 
was  reputed  to  be  growing  richer  every  year  ;  but  Jane 
Arnold  cared  little  or  nothing  for  that.  She  had  a 


At  the  Tower.  13 

kindness  for  the  man  himself,  and  his  gaunt  frame  and 
grim  plain  face,  with  the  beetling  eyebrows  and  habitual 
frown,  were  dearer  to  her  in  her  quiet  way  than  any 
others  in  the  world. 

He  put  out  one  big  hand  and  clutched  her  by  the 
arm.  "  You  were  my  foster-sister,  weren't  you,  Jane  ? 
We  were  like  brother  and  sister  for  a  good  many  years, 
eh  ?" 

"  That's  a  true  word,"  said  Jane,  briefly. 

"  Your  parents  were  trusted  by  my  parents,  as  one 
might  say,  to  the  death.  I  can  trust  you  in  the  same 
way  and  to  the  same  degree,  can't  I,  Jane  ?  " 

"  As  you  say,  to  the  death,  Mr.  John." 

"  Call  me  John  ;  I  like  it  better  than  your  'misters.' 
There's  a  tie  between  us  that  you  don't  know  of,  Jane, 
and  that  God  Himself  cannot  break.  I  sent  for  you  here 
to  tell  you  of  that." 

She  listened  quietly,  but  her  eyes  kindled.  "  I  like 
plain  words,"  she  said  briefly,  after  a  moment's  pause. 

"  You  shall  have  them.  You  had  a  step-sister,  Jane, 
a  beautiful  girl,  whom  you  loved  dearly." 

"  Yes,  I  loved  her." 

"  She  left  your  home,  and  you  don't  know  what  be- 
came of  her  ?  " 

"Aye." 

"  Would  it  surprise  you  if  I  told  you  that  it  was  I  who 
took  her  away  ?  " 

"  You — you  !  No,  God  is  my  witness  that  I  never 
thought  of  you."  Then,  with  surprising  fierceness  and 
sharpness,  "  You  married  her  ?  You  made  her  your 
wife  ?  Don't  tell  me  she  was  not  your  wife  ?  " 

"  She  is  my  wife,"  said  Daunay,  impassively. 

"  She  is  9    Then  she  is  living  ?     She  is  here  ?     Oh, 


14  Daunay's  Tower. 

John — John  Dannay,  I'll  forgive  you  all  the  agony  you 
caused  me  when  you  took  her  away,  if  only  you'll  tell 
me  that  she  is  alive  and  well." 

"  She  is  alive,  and  I  want  you  to  do  a  favor  to  her 
and  to  me." 

"  Let  her  ask  me  herself." 

"  She  is  not  well  enough  to  ask  you  herself.  I  want 
you  to  promise  that  you  will  do  what  she  asks." 

"  Oh,  my  Betha  !     As  if  I  could  say  her  nay  !  " 

"  I  have  your  promise  ?"  said  Daunay,  in  a  curiously 
emphatic  way.  "  Swear  you'll  do  what  she  asks  of  you 
when  the  moment  comes." 

Jane  paused  for  a  moment  ;  her  face  was  convulsed 
by  strong  feeling,  but  she  was  too  calm  and  sensible  a 
woman  by  nature  to  give  a  promise  lightly. 

"  I'll  not  swear,"  she  said  presently  ;  "  but  if  it's 
within  my  power,  and  nothing  wrong,  I'll  do  anything 
that  Betha  asks  of  me." 

"  Very  well.  That's  all.  I  knew  you  could  be  de- 
pended on,  Jane.  Now,  will  you  wait  five  minutes 
longer,  and  then  you  shall  know  what  Betha  asks  of 
you." 

"  Oh,  take  me  to  see  her  !  She  is  here,  is  she  not  ? 
For  the  love  of  Heaven,  John  Daunay — 

"  Here  ?  Don't  be  a  fool,  Jane.  Why  should  I 
bring  her  here,  to  this  lonely  spot,  of  all  places  in  the 
world  ?  She  spends  her  winters  in  warm  sunny  places, 
by  the  Mediterranean  or  on  the  Nile.  But  you  shall 
have  a  message  from  her  by  and  by.  Let  me  pass  ;  I  .am 
going  into  the  house.  I  know  you'll  do  Betha's  com- 
mission faithfully." 

He  put  her  aside  as  easily  as  if  she  had  been  a  little 
child,  opened  the  narrow  door,  and  went  quickly  into 


At  the  Tower.  15 

the  house.  Jane,  left  alone,  leaned  against  the  wall, 
her  arms  hanging  at  her  sides,  the  tears  dropping  down 
her  sensible,  fresh-colored  face.  News  at  last  from 
Betha,  whom  she  had  long  regarded  as  lost  forever 
from  her  world,  tended  to  unnerve  her  to  a  quite  un- 
wonted degree.  For  some  minutes  she  could  not  con- 
trol her  tears ;  but  at  last  they  were  checked  as  she 
realized  the  fact  that  a  dead  silence  seemed  to  prevail 
within  the  house,  and  that  she  could  not  go  away  until 
she  had  received  the  message,  the  commission,  what- 
ever it  might  be,  that  Betha  had  for  her. 

Suddenly  a  sound  was  heard.  The  outer  door  of  the 
upper  room,  at  the  head  of  the  steps,  was  opened.  The 
sky  had  lightened  a  little,  and  a  glint  of  moonlight 
made  it  obvious  to  Jane  Arnold  that  a  man's  figure  was 
descending  the  stairway,  but  slowly  and  carefully,  as  if 
he  carried  something  of  importance.  It  was  not  John 
Daunay  this  time ;  it  was  the  slighter,  shorter  figure 
of  the  young  doctor,  Eugene  Lechmere.  Jane  felt  a 
shiver  of  dread,  almost  of  abhorrence,  pass  through 
her  as  he  paused  at  the  foot  of  the  steps.  There  was 
an  oddly  shaped  bundle  in  his  arms.  After  a  moment's 
hesitation,  she  advanced,  instinct  telling  her  that 
Betha's  message  was  to  come  through  him. 

His  cynical  dark  eyes  seemed  to  shine  with  bitter 
mirth  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  I  have  brought  you  something  that  it's  to  be  hoped 
yon  will  like,"  he  said.  "  And  you'd  better  get  home 
with  it  quickly,  if  you  want  it  to  live,  Miss  Arnold.  I 
was  to  tell  you  from  Mr.  Daunay  that  Betha  sent  you 
tltix" — and  he  placed  the  bundle  in  her  half-unwill- 
ing arms;  "for  this,"  he  added  slowly,  "is  Betha's 
child." 


1 6  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTEK  II. 

THE  DOCTOR'S  VISIT. 

IT  all  seemed  to  Jane  Arnold  like  a  dream  as  she 
looked  back.  She  could  hardly  believe  that  any  part 
of  it  was  true,  even  when  she  found  herself  toiling  up 
the  fell-side,  with  the  wind  hustling  her  and  the  moon 
shining  fitfully  upon  the  uneven  path.  Fortunately, 
the  baby  in  her  arms  was  very  still — so  still  that  once 
Jane  stopped  to  feel  its  little  face  and  hands  and  to  be 
certain  that  it  lived.  But  the  hands  were  warm,  and 
the  little  face  had  a  tinge  of  life,  so  that  the  woman 
who  carried  it  was  reassured,  and  hastened  on  her  way. 

She  had  cried  out  with  her  remonstrances  when  she 
was  first  asked  to  take  the  child  to  her  own  home  up  in 
the  hills  ;  and  Mr.  Lechmere  had  stood  and  laughed  at 
her — laughed  tempestuously,  almost  hysterically,  as  if  at 
any  moment  his  laughter  might  be  turned  into  the  sobs  of 
sheer  nervous  exhaustion.  But  Jane  Arnold  was  not 
accustomed  to  weakness  of  any  kind  ;  feverish  laughter 
from  a  man's  lips  was  as  alien  to  her  as  tears  from  his 
eyes.  She  turned  from  him  indignantly,  and  tried  to 
pass  him  on  the  steps,  to  knock  at  the  closed  door ;  but 
these  attempts  of  hers  sobered  him  and  brought  out 
his  savage  side.  He  cursed  her  for  a  fool,  and  bade 
her  go  home  as  fast  as  her  feet  would  carry  her. 

"  If  you  hang  about  here,  the  child  will  probably  get 
a  chill,  and  its  death  will  be  at  your  door,"  he  said 


The  Doctor's  Visit.  17 

grimly.  "Didn't  you  promise  to  do  what  you  were 
asked  ?  Take  the  baby  home,  and  keep  it  warm ;  I'll 
look  in  to-morrow  to  see  how  it  gets  on.  You'll  be 
paid  for  your  trouble,  if  that's  what  yon  are  thinking 
about." 

Jane's  glance  would  have  annihilated  him  on  the 
spot,  if  glances  could  kill. 

"  I  should  like  to  see  the  man  who  would  try  to  pay 
me  for  tending  my  sister's  child,"  she  said.  "Not 
John  Dauuay,  I  know.  And  as  for  you,  doctor,  I'd 
sooner  pay  you  to  keep  away  from  my  door  than  have 
you  casting  your  evil  eyes  upon  me  and  mine." 

Lechmere  laughed  again,  bending  himself  almost 
double  with  apparent  enjoyment. 

"  You  think  I  can  lay  a  spell  on  the  baby,  do  you  ?  " 
he  said.  "  You  think  I  shall  blast  it  by  some  malig- 
nant power  that  Satan's  given  me  ?  Ton  my  honor, 
you  are  vastly  complimentary.  But  you  won't  get  rid 
of  me  for  all  that,  ma'am.  I  shall  have  to  report  on 
the  child's  state  to-morrow  morning  ;  and  you  had  bet- 
ter get  her  home  as  quickly  as  you  can.*' 

Then  it  was  that  Jane  finally  turned  from  him  and 
began  her  journey  up  the  fell-side,  with  the  wind  blow- 
ing furiously  in  her  face,  and  her  eyes  dimmed  by  tears, 
as  well  as  by  the  fitful  dashes  of  rain  which  took  her 
every  now  and  then  by  surprise.  At  intervals  the 
moon  shown  out  brightly,  and  then  she  stepped  briskly 
ahead  ;  for  the  child's  weight  was  nothing  to  a  strong 
country  woman  like  herself,  and  she  knew  the  shortest 
cut  across  the  hill  to  her  homestead  in  the  fells. 

She  was  the  daughter  of  a  tenant  farmer,  who,  as 
Daunay  said,  had  ever  been  faithful  and  friendly  to  his 
landlord  at  Daunay's  Tower  ;  and  the;  connection  be- 

2 


1 8  Daunay's  Tower. 

tween  the  two  families  had  remained  unchanged  from 
previous  generations  until  this  day.  For,  long  before 
the  modern  part  of  Daunay's  Tower  had  been  built,  a 
Daunay  had  owned  a  good  deal  of  barren  land  in  the 
district ;  and  his  name  had  been  well  known  in  all  the 
country-side.  But  all  the  Daunays  had  been  poor ;  it 
was  reserved  for  John  Daunay  to  make  a  fortune  and 
endeavor  to  restore  the  lost  glories  of  the  family. 
Hitherto,  however,  it  seemed  as  though  he  had  failed. 

He  was  the  last  of  the  family  in  the  direct  line  ;  but 
there  were  cousins  of  the  same  name,  who  had  never 
been  seen  in  Cumberland.  Possibly  John  Daunay  knew 
them,  but  the  people  of  the  fells  did  not. 

Jane  Arnold  reached  her  house  between  twelve  and 
one  o'clock,  and  it  had  taken  swift  walking  to  bring  her 
home  so  soon.  Her  house  was  the  old  farmstead  which 
had  been  tenanted  for  many  years  by  her  forefathers, 
and  no  Daunay  would  have  had  the  heart  to  turn  her 
out  of  it.  But  the  farming  had  passed  chiefly  into  the 
hands  of  a  neighbor,  by  private  arrangement,  and  Jane 
Arnold  contented  herself  with  the  management  of  the 
dairy  and  the  care  of  poultry.  There,  in  that  little 
whitewashed  house  among  the  hills,  with  its  flagged 
passages  and  draughty  rooms,  its  garden  gay  with  asters 
and  dahlias,  and  its  beautiful  dairy,  set  with  pans  of 
cream  and  rolls  of  butter,  fresh  from  Jane's  cool,  skilful 
hands,  she  had  lived  as  peaceful  and  happy  a  life  as  it 
was  possible  for  the  heart  of  a  woman  to  conceive. 

Except  for  Betha.  Betha  was  the  thorn  in  her  side, 
the  crook  in  her  lot,  and  at  the  same  time  the  apple  of 
her  eye.  Betha,  the  child  of  her  father's  second  wife, 
was  fair  as  a  beautiful  lily,  with  the  golden  hair  and 
rose-bloom  which  many  a  London  lady  would  have  given 


Tne  Doctor's  Visit.  19 

a  fortune  to  secure.  Betha,  sweet  and  smiling,  had 
been  as  the  sunshine  of  life  to  Jane  Arnold,  until  a 
time  came  when  the  girl  drooped,  the  light  went  out 
of  her  eyes,  the  color  from  her  cheek  ;  and  nobody 
could  tell  the  reason  why. 

Jane  Arnold,  in  her  quiet  way,  was  as  one  possessed. 
She  tried  to  keep  her  anxiety  to  herself  when  Betha 
was  present,  for  it  was  bad  for  Betha  to  see  how  much 
the  elder  woman  took  her  languor  to  heart ;  but  she 
besieged  the  doctor  with  inquiries,  she  read  all  the 
medical  books  that  she  could  lay  her  hands  on,  she 
hunted  up  old  receipts  of  her  grandmother,  all  to  com- 
bat the  disease  which  she  feared  for  her  sister,  and  to 
combat  it  in  vain. 

For  the  disease  was  not  consumption,  as  Jane  had 
fancied  ;  it  was  love. 

She  could  not  imagine — when  this  fact  dawned  upon 
her — whom  Betha  could  have  found  to  love.  It  was 
certainly  not  the  curate,  whom  she  had  ridiculed  in  un- 
measured terms.  It  was  not  one  of  the  young  farmers 
in  the  neighborhood  :  Betha  had  fastidious  tastes.  It 
was  no  stranger,  she  was  sure  of  that ;  for  there  had  not 
been  so  much  as  a  sketching  artist  in  the  place  for  the 
last  five  years.  As  for  Mr.  Daunay  of  Daunay's  Tower, 
Jane  Arnold  never  thought  of  him.  It  would  have 
been  treachery  if  he  had  stolen  Betha's  heart ;  and  be- 
sides, he  was  too  much  above  her  in  position  to  make  a 
happy  marriage  possible.  Jane  might  treat  Mr.  Dau- 
nay very  cavalierly  when  she  chose,  but  she  fully  rec- 
ognized the  difference  of  station  between  her  family 
and  his. 

So  it  never  occurred  to  her  that  John  Daunay  had 
fallen  in  love  with  Betha  ;  and  when  the  girl  suddenly 


2o  Daunay's  Tower. 

disappeared,  leaving  a  vague  little  letter  to  say  that  she 
had  left  England  with  the  man  she  loved,  Jane  almost 
broke  her  heart  with  grieving,  but  never  suspected  that 
the  man  who  had  tempted  her  sister  away  from  the 
farm  was  Daunay  of  Daunay's  Tower.  And  now  that 
he  had  owned  the  fact,  she  could  not  find  it  in  her  heart 
to  hate  the  man.  For,  although  he  had  wronged  her, 
he  had  married  her  sister,  and  he  had  sent  her  Betha's 
child.  To-morrow,  she  would  hear  from  Betha  herself, 
perhaps  ;  to-morrow  she  might  even  be  told  that  Betha 
was  at  Dannay's  Tower.  For  Jane  Arnold  had  no  con- 
fidence in  John  Dannay's  word,  and  she  thought  that 
Betha  might  be  in  Cumberland,  in  spite  of  all  that  her 
husband  said  to  the  contrary. 

The  couple  of  maid-servants  that  she  kept  had  gone 
to  bed,  but  the  fire,  seldom  if  ever  extinguished,  burned 
red  beneath  the  ashes  in  the  wide  open  grate.  Jane 
laid  the  baby  on  a  cushion  before  it,  and  raked  the  em- 
bers together  first  of  all.  The  little  creature  was 
curiously  quiet  and  still.  But  when  the  fire  was  burn- 
ing and  Jane  warmed  food  for  the  child  and  took  it  on 
her  lap,  it  seemed  to  come  to  life  a  little  and  to  stretch 
out  its  limbs  blindly  to  the  reviving  blaze.  It  was  a 
very  young  child,  a  few  days  old  at  most,  Jane  thought  ; 
but  it  was  the  prettiest  little  baby  that  she  had  ever 
seen.  It  was  a  girl-baby,  white,  and  well-formed,  with 
big  blue  eyes,  and  a  soft  down  of  golden  hair  ;  and  it 
was  evidently  healthy  and  good-tempered,  for  even  the 
exposure  to  wind  and  rain  and  the  cold  air  of  night 
had  not  apparently  done  it  any  harm.  Jane  held  it 
close  to  her,  and  felt  the  touch  of  the  baby  hands  go 
through  her  like  a  draught  of  wine  ;  she  had  not  known 
what  it  would  be  to  handle  a  child  of  her  own  flesh  and 


The  Doctor's  Visit.  21 

blood.  She  loved  the  baby  from  that  hour,  even  more 
passionately  than  she  had  loved  Betha,  the  girl  whom 
John  Da u nay  had  decoyed  from  her  side. 

The  morning  came,  and  she  had  to  account  to  her 
household  for  the  presence  of  a  child.  The  open-eyed 
wonder  of  Hester  and  Priscilla  was  too  much  for  her. 
But  she  said  as  little  as  she  could. 

"This  is  a  relation's  child  ;  she  has  got  to  bide  with 
me  for  a  while,"  she  said,  in  as  commonplace  a  tone  as 
possible.  "  She'll  make  a  bit  of  work  in  the  house,  I 
reckon  ;  but  you  won't  mind  that,  Hester  and  Prissy  ? 
She  may  be  only  a  few  days  here,  for  aught  I  know ; 
her  kith  and  kin  will  call  for  her  in  a  week  or  two." 

But  her  eyes  fell  as  she  spoke  ;  she  did  not  believe 
the  things  she  said.  From  the  way  in  which  the  baby 
had  been  made  over  to  her,  she  fancied  that  she  was  to 
be,  for  the  present  at  least,  both  mother  and  guardian 
to  Betha's  child.  Perhaps  Betha  did  not  want  the 
trouble  of  rearing  her — Betha  had  never  been  fond  of 
children,  she  remembered — perhaps  John  Daunay  was 
vexed  that  the  baby  was  a  girl.  At  any  rate,  the  child 
had  been  made  over  to  her — placed  in  her  arms,  com- 
mitted to  her  care  ;  and  Jane  Arnold  was  resolved  to 
do  her  duty  to  this  child  of  misfortune,  as  she  could 
not  help  but  call  her,  although  she  was  Betha's  child. 

It  was  ten  o'clock  when  she  saw  the  doctor's  gig  in 
the  winding  white  road  that  led  to  the  Moorside  Farm. 
A  gleam  of  anger  came  into  her  eyes,  and  she  drew  her 
breath  sharply. 

"  I'll  not  see  him,"  she  said  at  first.  "  He's  no  good. 
He  laughs  at  all  that's  honest  and  virtuous,  like  the 
devil  himself  in  human  form.  I've  always  said  that  I 
would  never  have  him  within  my  house." 


22  Daunay's  Tower. 

But  it  was  easier  to  protest  in  word  than  in  deed. 
When  the  doctor  stood  at  the  door,  and  asked  quietly 
td  see  Miss  Arnold,  she  did  not  feel  it  possible  to  turn 
him  away.  She  came  out  of  the  kitchen,  and  stood  in 
the  narrow  passage,  blocking  up  the  way,  so  that  he 
could  not  pass  her  against  her  will. 

As  for  Doctor  Lechmere,  he  looked  at  her  with 
laughing  yet  intelligent  eyes.  He  knew  perfectly  well 
the  source  of  her  aversion  to  him.  He  respected  her 
for  her  prejudices  ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  he  knew 
that  they  must  not  interfere  with  the  work  he  had  got 
to  do.  He  was  a  man  who  liked  his  own  way,  and  gen- 
erally got  it  when  he  chose  to  exert  himself. 

"  Good  morning,  Miss  Arnold/'  he  said,  lifting  his 
hat  for  a  moment  from  his  chestnut-brown  head,  and 
showing  a  row  of  white  teeth  in  an  exceedingly  friendly 
smile.  "  I've  come  by  Mr.  Daunay's  orders — he  takes 
an  interest  in  the  baby,  you  know — and  I've  business 
to  transact  with  you  about  his  affairs.  Aren't  you  going 
to  let  me  in?  It's  a  pity  that  I  should  have  to  talk 
confidentially  to  yon  in  the  passage,  you  know." 

"  I've  nothing  confidential  to  say  to  you,  Dr.  Lech- 
mere,"  said  Jane  Arnold,  in  a  dry  tone. 

"But  I've  something  confidential  to  say  to  you— 
something  important,  too  ;  and  I  won't  say  it  here." 

"Come  in,  then,"  said  the  woman,  suddenly  yielding 
the  point  "  Say  what  you  have  to  say,  and  go." 

She  opened  the  door  into  a  little  sitting-room — a  stiff 
little  parlor,  agonizingly  gay  with  mats  and  samplers 
and  antimacassars  of  the  baser  sort ;  the  kind  of  par- 
lor which  belongs  to  the  lower  middle  class,  and  of 
which  the  lower  middle  class  is  almost  always  superla- 
tively proud.  Jane  Arnold  was  not  superior  to  her 


The  Doctor's  Visit.  23 

class,  and  secretly  admired  her  own  parlor  very  much 
indeed.  Even  to  John  Daunay,  with  his  rudimentary 
ideas  of  art,  the  place  would  not  have  seemed  amiss ; 
but  there  was  something  in  Eugene  Lechmere's  eyes 
as  he  glanced  over  its  ornaments  which  annoyed  Miss 
Arnold  exceedingly.  It  seemed  to  say  that  he  had 
known  a  very  different  order  of  things ;  that  he  could 
appraise  the  value  of  every  article  in  the  room,  and 
that  he  was  almost  amused  at  the  poorness  of  it,  the 
vulgarity,  the  absurdity.  Jane  Arnold  felt  his  opinion, 
although  she  could  not  have  put  it  into  words  ;  and  for 
a  moment  she,  too,  hated  the  green  rep  and  stiff  white 
curtains  at  the  windows,  the  red  Bohemian  glass  and 
lusters  on  the  mantelpiece,  the  wax-flowers  under  glass 
shades  on  the  center-table,  flanked  by  red,  blue,  and 
green,  gilt-edged  editions  of  the  poets  which  the  mis- 
tress of  the  house  had  received  as  prizes  when  she  went 
to  school. 

But  the  gleam  of  amusement  in  Dr.  Lechmere's  eyes 
vanished  as  suddenly  as  it  had  come.  He  sat  down 
deliberately,  and  drew  off  his  riding-gloves,  his  face 
hardening  as  he  looked  at  the  plain,  bright-eyed  woman 
who  stood  with  her  hands  on  the  center  table,  listening 
for  what  he  had  to  say. 

"  I  have  come  from  Mr.  Dannay,"  he  began.  It  was 
noticeable  that  his  voice  was  that  of  a  cultivated  man 
when  he  chose,  although  of  late  he  had  adopted  a  rough 
mode  of  speech  which  seemed  to  approximate  his  sta- 
tion to  that  of  his  patients.  "  He  wishes  me  to  tell 
you  that  he  is  going  back  to  London  to-morrow,  and 
he  hopes  that  the  child  may  remain  with  you.  He'll 
pay  all  expenses,  of  course." 

"  If  the  child  is  my  Betha's  child,  why  should  I  take 


24  Daunay's  Tower. 

money  for  her  from  any  one  ? "  said  Jane  Arnold, 
stiffly. 

"  I  don't  think  you  have  a  prior  right  to  that  of  her 
father,"  returned  Lechmere,  in  his  lightest  tone  ;  "but, 
no  doubt,  you  know  best.  If  the  girl  is  to  be  brought 
up  as  John  Daunay's  heiress,  it  seems  to  me  only  fail- 
that  he  should  stand  the  charges." 

"  John  Daunay's  heiress  !  There  is  no  other  child, 
then  ? "  . 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  Do  you  think  Daunay  would 
take  me  into  his  confidence  ?  " 

"  Not  likely,"  said  Jane,  eying  him  so  coldly 
and  keenly  that  for  a  moment  the  red  color  crept 
into  the  young  man's  cheek  ;  but  he  only  laughed 
aloud. 

"  A  fair  hit— a  palpable  hit !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  You 
know  how  to  hold  your  own,  Miss  Arnold.  Well,  look 
here,  Daunay  sends  you  a  hundred  pounds  in  bank- 
notes ;  you  will  have  the  same  amount  half-yearly,  and 
more,  if  you  don't  find  it  enough.  Here  is  a  written 
receipt  which  you  are  to  sign."  He  tossed  a  large  en- 
velope and  a  half-sheet  of  paper  on  the  table. 

"I  had  better  count  the  notes,"  said  Jane.  Her 
manner  of  saying  the  words  was  in  itself  almost  an 
insult. 

"  Certainly.  I  might  have  made  away  with  some  of 
them,  might  I  not  ?  Count  and  sign,  if  you  please ; 
I'm  in  a  hurry  this  morning." 

He  waited  while  she  very  slowly  went  through  the 
notes  and  fixed  her  name  to  the  receipt. 

"  I  am  to  keep  the  child  for  some  time,  then,  I  sup- 
pose ?  Until  Betha — that  is,  Mrs.  Daunay — sends  for 
her  ?  " 


The  Doctor's  Visit.  25 

Dr.  Lechmere  was  striding  towards  the  door  when 
she  asked  the  question.  He  paused,  with  his  back  to- 
wards her,  and  threw  an  answer  over  his  left  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  didn't  I  tell  you  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  jaunty  ease 
which  amounted  almost  to  brutality.  "  Betha's  dead." 


26  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTER  III. 

FRIENDS   OR   FOES  ? 

THE  news  so  suddenly  flung  into  Jane  Arnold's  face 
did  not  stagger  her  so  much  as  it  would  have  done 
many  other  women.  She  was  not  in  the  habit  of  in- 
^  dulging  her  emotions  in  any  way  ;  and  she  had  had  her 
suspicions  from  the  first.  She  understood  Mr.  Daunay's 
manner  too  well  not  to  know  when  he  was  telling  a 
deliberate  falsehood  ;  and  she  had  not  believed  him 
when  he  talked  of  Betha's  sojourn  in  some  southern 
land.  Besides,  if  Betha  were  far  away,  how  could  so 
young  a  babe  have  been  given  into  Jane  Arnold's  care  ? 
No  ;  Betha  had  died  when  the  child  was  born,  or 
shortly  afterwards,  and  probably  her  cold  body  lay  in 
the  Tower,  and  Daunay  himself  kept  watch  and  ward 
over  it.  But  what  were  they  going  to  do  ?  Where 
would  they  bury  her  ?  And  why  was  she  not  sum- 
moned to  look  her  last  upon  her  poor  young  sister's 
face  ?  Money  was  not  what  she  wanted,  she  had  enough 
for  her  own  wants  and  for  those  of  the  child  ;  but  the 
tie  of  kinship  was  strong  within  her,  and  she  not  only 
mourned  for  her  sister,  but  bitterly  resented  the  way 
in  which  they  had  been  kept  apart. 

Later  in  the  day  she  took  the  decided  step  of  going 
herself  to  Daunay's  Tower  and  asking  to  speak  to  the 
master.  But  no  answer  came  to  her  repeated  knocks 
at  the  narrow  door.  She  went  round  the  house  to  the 


Friends  or  Foes  ?  27 

front  entrance,  and  pealed  at  the  cold  majestic  portal 
with  equal  unsuccess.  Then  she  made  her  way  to  the 
kitchen  entrance,  and  here  for  the  first  time  she  saw 
some  sign  of  life.  A  man  whom  she  recognized  as  Mr. 
Daunay's  confidential  servant  stood  in  the  doorway.  He 
was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  and  was  smoking  a  short  pipe, 
from  which  two  signs  Jane  guessed  the  answer  to  her 
question  before  it  was  out  of  her  mouth. 

"No,  Mr.  Daunay  was  not  at  home,  and  there  was 
no  saying  when  he  would  be  back." 

"  I  saw  him  yesterday,"  said  Jane,  boldly. 

"  Oh  yes,  he  was  down  for  a  day  or  two  ;  but  he  has 
gone  away  again." 

"  He  is  coming  back  soon,  I  suppose,  or  you  would 
not  be  here  ?  " 

She  had  no  special  dislike  to  this  man,  who  was  civil- 
spoken  and  tolerably  honest,  but  servitude  was  abhor- 
rent to  her,  and  she  scorned  him  for  his  servile  airs  to 
his  master.  Harvey  was,  in  fact,  an  excellent  servant, 
and  looked  down  upon  Jane  Arnold  almost  as  much  as 
she  looked  down  on  him. 

"  You're  a  good  guesser,  miss,"  he  said  familiarly, 
"  but  it  isn't  for  me  to  say  whether  or  no." 

"  Can  I  come  in  ?  "  she  asked,  taking  a  step  towards 
the  door. 

In  a  trice  he  was  beforehand  with  her,  and  closed  the 
door  in  her  face,  remaining  outside  it,  however,  with 
his  hand  upon  the  key. 

"  Nobody's  allowed  in  while  Mr.  Daunay  is  away,  ex- 
cept on  business,"  he  said.  "It  would  be  as  much  as 
my  place  was  worth  to  let  you  in,  Miss  Arnold." 

"  That's  not  a  standing  rule,"  said  Jane.  "  I've 
often  been  in  before." 


28  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Well,  it's  master's  orders  now,  at  any  rate,  and  I'm 
not  one  to  go  against  them,"  said  Harvey. 

Jane  hesitated ;  she  had  a  question  which  she  was 
longing  to  put,  but  it  went  against  the  grain  with  her 
to  obtain  information  in  any  surreptitious  way.  She 
turned  away  at  last,  with  her  question  still  unasked. 

All  through  the  day  and  night,  however,  the  baby 
was  a  comfort  to  her.  She  felt  a  new  warmth  of  love 
and  pity  whenever  she  looked  at  the  helpless  little 
thing.  By  the  morning  of  the  second  day  she  had 
grown  into  such  passionate  fondness  of  it  that  she  felt 
as  if  it  would  break  her  heart  were  the  child  taken 
away. 

About  ten  o'clock  she  saw,  with  positive  anger,  that 
the  doctor's  gig  was  again  drawn  up  at  the  gate,  and 
that  Dr.  Lechmere's  slight,  agile,  upright  figure  was 
advancing  towards  the  door.  Jane  had  the  child  in 
her  arms,  but  she  laid  it  down  in  its  cradle  with  a  look 
of  stern  determination  upon  her  face.  "He  shan't 
look  at  you,  my  blessed  one  !  He  shan't  handle  you  as 
long  as  you  have  your  Auntie  Jane,  he  shan't  ! "  And 
then  she  went  into  the  passage  and  herself  opened  the 
front  door. 

"  There's  no  one  ill,"  she  said  in  a  dry  monotonous 
voice.  "  We  don't  have  the  doctor  in  this  part  of  the 
world  when  we're  not  ill." 

"  Oh,  I  come  as  a  friend,"  said  Lechmere,  airily. 
"  You'll  have  to  submit  to  see  me  very  often.  I've 
Mr.  Daunay's  orders  to  inspect  his  daughter  twice  a 
week." 

"  If  John  Daunay  can't  trust  me  to  bring  up  a  child, 
I  think  I'd  better  not  take  the  responsibility,"  said  Miss 
Arnold. 


Friends  or  Foes  ?  29 

"  "Well,  perhaps  you  had  better  not,"  said  the  young 
doctor,  glibly.  "  If  it's  too  much  for  you,  I  dare  say 
Mr.  Daunay  could  find  another  home  for  her.  But 
wherever  the  baby  goes  he  will  have  her  under  medical 
inspection  ;  he  told  me  so.  You  will  either  have  to  let 
me  see  the  child,  Miss  Arnold,  or  give  her  up  to  some 
one  else." 

She  blanched  and  whitened  a  little  under  the  tan  of 
her  healthy  skin.  The  doctor's  practised  eye  noted 
the  sign  of  care  and  grief  upon  her  face  ;  her  eyelids 
were  swollen,  her  complexion  was  rather  blotched. 
Even  her  lip  quivered  for  a  moment  as  she  considered 
the  situation.  Then  she  made  a  swift  turn  towards  the 
kitchen. 

"  Come  and  see  her,  then,  if  you  must.  She's  per- 
fectly well  and  healthy  ;  she  doesn't  need  doctoring, 
but  I  suppose  John  Daunay  will  have  his  way." 

"  He  does  generally,"  said  Lechmere,  in  a  careless 
tone.  Then,  as  he  followed  his  unwilling  hostess  into 
the  kitchen,  his  face  lighted  up  and  his  voice  took  on  a 
ring  of  decided  interest.  "  Come,  this  is  something 
like,"  he  said.  ' '  This  is  a  fine  old  room.  Why,  this  is 
magnificent ! " 

His  eye  ran  rapidly  over  the  details  of  the  picture 
before  him.  The  great  rafters  of  the  roof,  the  enor- 
mous inglenook,  with  the  great  logs  of  wood  burning 
in  the  old-fashioned  grate  ;  the  finely  carved  oak  settle 
and  linen  chests  and  chairs  ;  the  wide,  low  windows, 
with  their  cushioned  seats  ; — these  were  objects  which 
for  a  moment  brought  a  kind  of  enthusiasm  to  his  face. 
One  of  the  peculiarities  about  Eugene  Lechmere  which 
gave  offense  sometimes  to  his  neighbors,  was  his  inter- 
est in  what  they  called  unimportant  things,  such  as  the 


3o  Daunay's  Tower. 

shape  of  a  piece  of  furniture,  the  exact  shade  of  color  in 
a  flower.  He  had  artistic  tastes  which  were  decidedly 
incongruous  in  his  position.  He  was  known  to  make 
sketches,  even  in  his  hours  of  leisure,  and  to  play 
frivolous  tunes  upon  a  violin.  As  he  looked  at  the 
old  north-country  kitchen,  it  was  evident  that  he  had 
the  eye  of  a  connoisseur. 

Miss  Arnold  was  somewhat  mollified,  in  spite  of  her- 
self. If  there  was  a  place  that  she  loved,  it  was  the 
kitchen  of  Moorside  Farm.  She  was  half  vexed,  half 
proud  to  see  that  Dr.  Lechmere  had  entirely  for- 
gotten for  a  moment  the  errand  on  which  he  had  come, 
and  that  he  was  staring  intently  at  the  date  cut  in  the 
mantelpiece  rather  than  at  the  child  in  the  cradle. 

"  It's  only  a  kitchen,"  she  said  dryly.  "  And  there's 
not  been  a  bit  of  new  furniture  in  it  for  the  last  two 
hundred  year  or  so,  but  I  doubt  it  will  last  my  time/' 

"  Of  course  it  will  last  your  time,  and  that  of  genera- 
tions after  you,"  said  Lechmere,  turning  round  with 
almost  a  gay  light  in  his  deep-set  dark  eyes.  "It  is 
charming  ;  it  is  delightful  !  London  itself  would  envy 
you  this  carved  oak  and  these  mullioned  windows  !  " 

"It  is  very  little  to  me  what  they  think  in  London," 
said  Jane  Arnold. 

His  face  clouded  instantly.  "  Nor  to  me,  either," 
he  said,  with  a  subdued  groan  in  his  voice.  "  God 
knows  London  and  its  opinions  are  nothing  to  me  now. 
Well," — with  a  sharp  change  of  tone — "  where's  the 
child  ?  " 

Jane  silently  indicated  the  cradle. 

"  Ah,  looks  well — a  healthy  child,  well  formed  and 
good-tempered,  I  should  say.  The  name,  by  the  bye,  is 
Annabel — Annabel  Daunay.  I  was  to  tell  you  that." 


Friends  or  Foes  ?  31 

"  Has  she  been  baptized  ?  " 

"  Yes,  the  nurse  christened  her  on  the  night  she  was 
born.  A  fancy  of  hers.  They  had  an  idea  that  she 
would  not  live  ;  bat  she  seems  all  right." 

"  You  are  sure  she  was  baptized  ?  "  said  Jane  Arnold, 
who  was  a  staunch  Churchwoman. 

"  Perfectly  sure  ;  but  I  suppose  you'll  have  her  re- 
ceived into  the  Church,  or  whatever  you  call  it.  You 
must  speak  to  the  parson  about  that,  if  you  think  it 
matters.  Annabel,  that's  her  name." 

"  Why  was  she  not  called  after  her  mother  ?  " 

Lechmere  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Heaven  knows  ! 
Her  father  wants  her  to  stay  here  and  be  brought  up 
as  her  mother  was  before  her,  but  he  did  not  want  her 
called  by  the  same  name." 

Jane  Arnold's  brow  gathered.  She  looked  at  the 
rosy  baby  in  its  snowy  coverings,  but  did  not  say  a  word. 

"  And  now,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere,  with  sudden  energy, 
"I  have  a  word  to  say  to  you,  Miss  Arnold.  You 
came  down  to  the  Tower  yesterday,  and  tried  to  get 
inside." 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"  For  what  object,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Lechmere,  I  don't  suppose  you  know  any- 
thing about  the  love  of  one  woman  for  another. 
Betha  was  my  stepsister,  but  she  was  dearer  than  life 
to  me,  and  I  can't  help  believing  that  she  is  there  dead, 
with  nobody  to  put  a  flower  on  her  breast  or  smooth 
her  pretty  curls " 

She  stopped  suddenly.  Her  eyes  had  filled  with 
tears,  her  voice  had  begun  to  choke. 

"  "What  difference  does  it  make  ?"  said  the  doctor, 
harshly. 


32  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  All  the  difference  to  those  who  loved  her,"  said 
Jane  Arnold,  vehemently.  "  Is  the  poor  lass  to  be 
buried  like  a  dog,  without  a  sign  of  affection  from 
those  who  loved  her  ?  Is  nobody  to  kiss  her  dead  face 
or  say  a  prayer  at  her  bedside  ?  " 

"Popery — rank  popery,  Miss  Arnold.  Would  you 
pray  for  the  dead  ?  " 

"  Better  to  pray  for  the  dead  than  for  some  of  the 
living,  I  think,"  said  the  woman,  sharply ;  and  from 
the  way  in  which  she  faced  him  he  knew  that  she  was 
thinking  of  himself. 

"  So  you  consider  me  past  praying  for  ?  "  he  said, 
with  a  laugh.  "  Why  do  you  hate  me  so,  Miss  Arnold  ? 
After  all,  I'm  not  a  hardened  ruffian,  though  I  may 
choose  to  appear  so  from  time  to  time.  And  I  may 
mend,  you  know.  I'm  not  seven  and  twenty  yet, 
though  I  look  more  than  my  age." 

He  spoke  scoffingly,  but  there  was  some  little  sug- 
gestion of  emotion,  almost  of  pathos,  behind  the  scoff. 
Perhaps  Miss  Arnold  saw  and  was  touched  by  it,  for 
she  answered  more  gently  than  was  her  wont. 

"  I've  heard  it  said  that  it  was  never  too  late  to 
mend.  But  a  man  that  takes  in  his  mouth  the  lan- 
guage that  you  take,  and  drink,  as  folk  say  you  drink, 
doctor,  had  need  to  think  on  his  ways  before  he  ex- 
pects decent  women  to  be  civil  to  him." 

She  looked  for  an  outburst  of  anger,  for  Dr.  Lech- 
mere  was  not  reputed  to  be  of  an  easy  temper,  but  was 
resolved  to  keep  her  ground  in  spite  of  it.  To  her  sur- 
prise, Eugene  Lechmere  was  silent,  and  looked  at  the 
ground  as  if  a  little  ashamed  of  himself.  He  turned 
perceptibly  paler,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  he  bit  his 
lips  beneath  his  dark  mustache. 


Friends  or  Foes  ?  33 

"I  dare  say  you're  right,"  he  said,  in  an  altered 
voice  ;  "  bat  you  don't  know  what  it's  like  to  know 
that  your  whole  life's  blasted  and  ruined  before  you're 
thirty.  And  I  was  a  weak  fool/' 

"  You  forget  that  you  are  a  doctor,"  said  Jane 
Arnold,  dryly.  "You've  got  plenty  of  power  in  your 
hands  still.  When  you've  saved  a  few  lives — which 
you  won't  do  if  you  drink  yourself  to  death — and 
soothed  a  little  pain,  and  had  a  mother's  thanks,  may- 
be, for  bringing  her  bairns  back  from  the  grave, — 
then  you  won't  feel  as  if  your  life  were  blasted, 
after  all." 

The  young  man  fixed  a  startled  eye  upon  her  ;  it 
was  plain  that  the  thought  was  new  to  him.  He  had 
been  fond  of  his  profession — could  he  get  any  comfort 
from  it  still  ? 

There  was  an  odd  pause.  Jane  Arnold  turned  away 
and  rocked  the  baby 'a  cradle.  Lech  mere  picked  up 
his  hat  and  walked  mechanically  to  the  door,  as  if  he 
felt  himself  dismissed.  But  before  he  left  the  room 
he  spoke  once  more,  in  the  curiously  changed  tone 
which  Jane  had  already  noted. 

"  If  you  would  like  to  come  down  to  the  Tower  this 
afternoon,  1  will  take  you  in  to  see  your  sister,  Miss 
Arnold.  There  will  be  plenty  of  time." 

She  started,  and  could   hardly  find  voice  for  reply. 

"You  can  let  me  in  ?" 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Daunay  will  not  be  back  before  night. 
The  funeral  is  to  take  place  at  twelve." 

"  Twelve  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  At  midnight.  It  is  his  wish.  At  the  little  church 
on  the  hill — St.  Andrew's,  isn't  it  called  ?  You  need 
not  tell  any  one,  nor  betray  me,"  said  Dr.  Lechinere, 
3 


34  Daunay's  Tower. 

with  a  forced  smile ;  "  Daunay  wants  nobody  to 
know." 

"  I  shall  be  there,"  said  Jane,  with  solemnity.  She 
followed  Lechmere  to  the  door,  and  added  a  last  fer- 
vent word  which  made  him  wince  beneath  his  assumed 
indifference  :  "  God  bless  you,  doctor !  God  reward 
you  for  what  you  have  done  this  day  ! " 

He  seemed  to  have  lost  his  power  of  repartee.  He 
mounted  to  the  high  seat  of  his  dog-cart,  and  set  off, 
driving  furiously,  after  his  accustomed  fashion,  without 
a  word  of  farewell.  But  Jane  Arnold's  heart  went  out 
to  him  with  a  throb  of  gratitude. 

"  He's  better  than  I  took  him  for ;  I've  been  a  bit 
hard  on  him/'  she  said,  as  she  went  back  to  Baby 
Annabel. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  she  stood  beside  Betha's 
lifeless  figure  and  gazed  into  the  beautiful  dead  face 
that  afternoon,  by  Dr.  Lechmere's  permission  and 
favor,  although  John  Daunay  had  ordered  that  neither 
she  nor  any  other  person  should  be  admitted  to  that 
upper  room  in  the  Tower  where  his  dead  wife  lay.  He 
did  not  want  it  known  that  Betha  had  been  his  wife, 
or  that  she  had  died  and  left  a  child.  He  had  never 
told  his  friends  in  town  that  he  was  married ;  there 
was  no  use  in  publishing  the  fact  now. 

Money  would  do  almost  everything  ;  it  could  even 
purchase  silence  where  silence  was  desired.  Parson, 
doctor,  sexton — he  had  bought  them  all ;  or  so  he 
thought.  And  it  was  at  dead  of  night,  therefore,  that 
a  carriage  was  driven  to  the  little  lonely  gray  stone 
church  generally  known  as  St.  Andrew's-on-the-Hill  ; 
and  the  stars  shone  dimly  in  the  green  churchyard 
where  Betha  was  laid  to  rest. 


Friends  or  Foes  ?  35 

Mr.  Daunay  and  Eugene  Lechmere  were  the  mourn- 
ers ;  but  there  was  another  mourner  who  kept  herself 
in  the  shadows  and  passed  almost  unseen — a  mourner 
who  waited  till  all  the  rest  of  the  party  were  gone,  and 
then  came  forward  to  lay  a  poor  little  posy  of  autumn 
flowers  upon  her  sister's  grave. 


36  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTEE  IV. 

ANNABEL. 

IT  was  one  of  the  best  days  of  the  year.  There  was 
scarcely  a  cloud  to  fleck  the  dazzling  blue  of  the  sum- 
mer sky,  and  the  sunshine  poured  itself  in  a  broad, 
golden  flood  over  the  green  woods  and  pastures  of  the 
valley  and  the  purple  hills  which  swept  upward,  curve 
after  curve,  until  the  sterner  angles  of  the  granite 
crags  came  into  view  and  glittered  in  the  light.  It 
was  a  day  when  everything  glittered  ;  when  the  barren 
northern  land  seemed  as  full  of  color  and  light  as 
Italy  itself.  The  fell-side  was  rich  in  the  warm  reds 
and  browns  and  purples  of  the  blossoming  heather; 
and  the  gorse  made  golden  patches,  which  were  as 
beautiful  as  any  of  the  garden  blossoms  grown  in 
sunnier  climes. 

So,  at  least,  Annabel  thought.  She  could  not  be- 
lieve, in  her  heart,  that  there  were  any  lovelier  places 
in  the  world  than  her  own  Cumberland  home,  where 
she  had  spent  the  eighteen  years  of  her  young  life. 
"  Cumberland  in  summer,  perhaps,"  a  friend  once  said 
to  her,  rather  doubtfully.  But  she  had  answered  with 
pretty  vehemence,  "  In  summer,  in  spring,  autumn, 
and  winter,  it  is  the  dearest  place  in  the  whole  wide 
world."  "  And  you  know  so  much  of  the  whole  wide 
world,"  her  friend  had  mocked ;  at  which  Annabel 
turned  away,  half  offended,  because  she  did  not  quite 


Annabel.  37 

like  to  be  reminded  that  she  had  never  been  farther 
than  Carlisle. 

Since  the  day  when  Dr.  Lechmere  placed  her  in  Jane 
Arnold's  arms  she  had  lived  at  the  Moorside  Farm. 
The  square,  whitewashed  house,  not  in  the  least  pre- 
tentious, with  its  air  of  solid  respectability,  was  the 
only  home  she  knew.  She  had  never  been  to  school, 
nor  on  a  visit  to  any  one ;  she  knew  very  few  people, 
and  had  no  very  great  wish  to  know  more.  She  was 
that  finest  thing  in  the  world — a  thoroughly  healthy, 
happy,  and  contented  English  girl. 

She  stood  at  the  garden  gate  in  the  blaze  of  sunlight, 
as  if  there  were  no  such  thing  as  danger  from  sun- 
stroke or  even  the  milder  evils  of  freckles  and  tan. 
She  had  forgotten  her  hat ;  but  it  did  not  very  much 
matter ;  her  hair,  thick  and  long,  and  twined  round 
her  head  in  magnificent  golden  brown  waves,  protected 
her  from  the  sun  ;  and  her  skin  was  of  the  creamy  tone 
which  never  knows  a  blemish.  In  spite  of  her  country 
life  and  the  hard  winters  and  bitter  winds  that  she  had 
known,  her  face  had  never  browned  or  reddened  ;  it 
wore  a  perfectly  healthy  tint,  but,  except  when  she  was 
under  the  influence  of  some  excitement,  was  generally 
rather  pale.  Her  eyes  were  gray,  but  varied  like  her 
country's  skies  ;  for  sometimes  they  were  almost  black, 
sometimes  blue,  sometimes — and  especially  when  lumi- 
nous with  feeling — they  had  the  soft  violet  of  the  eve- 
ning shadows  among  the  hills. 

But  Annabel's  charm — for  she  had  a  charm  which 
was  all  her  own — did  not  lie  in  her  lovely  coloring  so 
much  as  in  an  impression  of  freshness  and  grace  which 
she  conveyed  to  the  beholder.  There  was  a  radiance 
about  her  like  that  of  a  happy  child ;  and  at  the  same 


38  Daunay's  Tower. 

time  she  was  far  removed  from  anything  like  shallow- 
ness  or  levity.  She  was  one  of  the  people  who  make 
life  interesting  for  others.  There  was  always  an  ele- 
ment of  the  unexpected  about  her — a  touch  of  original- 
ity for  which  no  one  could  be  prepared.  At  present 
very  few  persons  had  discovered  this  fact ;  but  it  was 
not  likely  to  remain  hidden  forever.  She  was  eight- 
een, and,  although  she  did  not  know  it,  a  change  was 
to  come  into  her  life  from  that  very  day. 

She  was  watching  at  the  gate  for  some  one  whom  she 
expected,  and  she  wondered  idly  whether  he  would  see 
the  spot  of  color  that  her  blue  cotton  dress  made 
against  the  white  of  the  gate  and  the  lime-white  road. 

"  He  has  such  frightfully  sharp  eyes,"  she  said  to 
herself  with  a  little  laugh;  "I  believe  he  can  see 
through  a  stone  wall.  Ah,  there's  the  cart.  How 
smart  it  is  with  its  bright  red  wheels,  and  how  the  har- 
ness glitters  !  He  will  have  an  accident  some  day  if  he 
drives  so  recklessly.  Auntie  has  told  him  so  a  thou- 
sand times,  but  he  only  laughs  at  her." 

Of  course  it  was  Dr.  Lechmere  of  whom  she  spoke. 
It  was  his  dog-cart  with  the  red  wheels  for  which  she 
watched,  as  it  sped  along  the  white  road  at  lightning 
pace ;  and  is  was  his  keen  dark  eye  that  smiled  at  her 
as  he  drew  up  at  the  gate  and  raised  his  hat.  He 
never  omitted  that  little  sign  of  deference,  but  other- 
wise his  manner  was  as  brusque  as  ever. 

"  What  business  have  you  to  stand  there  without  a 
hat  ?  Do  you  want  a  sunstroke,  or  have  you  any  am- 
bition to  rival  me  in  complexion  ?  " 

"  That  would  scarcely  be  easy,"  said  Annabel,  giving 
him  her  hand,  and  glancing  rather  mischievously  at  his 
somewhat  weatherbeaten  countenance, 


Annabel.  39 

To  her  fancy  he  always  looked  the  same  ;  she  could 
not  remember  any  change  in  him  ;  but,  as  a  matter  of 
fuct,  he  was  exceedingly  different  in  many  ways  from 
the  man  who  had  come  to  Carfax  Dale  some  twenty 
years  ago.  He  had  then  been  peculiarly  pale  and  'sal- 
low, with  something  of  an  air  of  ill-health  about  him, 
but  the  bracing  Cumberland  air  had  evidently  given 
him  new  life  and  strength.  He  was  no  stouter — if 
anything,  he  had  perhaps  grown  sparer  and  leaner  than 
ever — but  his  keen  face  was  browned  and  burnt  by  the 
effects  of  sun  and  wind,  and  many  a  storm  of  rain  and 
snow,  and  his  hazel  eyes  had  the  clear,  keen  glance  of 
one  who  is  accustomed  to  an  open-air  life  in  a  place 
where  long  distances  have  to  be  traversed  and  weather- 
signs  observed.  The  spareness  and  lightness  of  his 
figure — the  greyhound  look,  as  Annabel  had  once  hap- 
pily termed  it — gave  him  an  appearance  of  youth  which 
he  did  not  possess.  No  one  would  have  taken  him  for 
a  man  of  nearly  five  and  forty  ;  it  was  a  surprise  to  new 
acquaintances  to  hear  that  he  was  more  than  thirty-two 
or  thirty-three.  His  thick  chestnut-brown  hair  and 
slightly  reddish  mustache  showed  no  threads  of  gray, 
and  his  manner  was  that  of  a  young  man — crisp,  a  little 
satirical,  and  extremely  self-assured. 

There  had  been  other  and  greater  changes  in  Eugene 
Lechmere  than  those  in  his  appearance.  Nobody  knew 
exactly  when  or  how  they  had  taken  place  ;  but  they 
were  manifest  enough  to  any  one  who  compared  him 
with  the  reckless  young  fellow  who  had  first  made  him- 
self known  to  the  Cumberland  folk.  The  tales  of  his 
mad  frolics,  his  drunken  bouts,  his  fits  of  profanity, 
had  long  ago  died  away.  There  was  not  a  soberer  or 
more  strictly  living  man  in  the  neighborhood  than  Dr. 


4O  Daunay's  Tower. 

Lechmere  of  High  Rigg.  He  worked  too  hard  to 
have  time  for  frolics,  if  he  had  wanted  them.  Time 
had  not  worked  wonders  with  his  temper — he  could 
still  be  extremely  bad-tempered  and  irritable,  for  his 
nerves  were  too  highly  strung  for  mere  placidity — but  it 
was  seldom  that  his  language  outran  discretion  in  these 
latter  days.  He  had  taken  himself  under  control,  and 
thrown  those  restless  energies  of  his  into  the  pursuit  of 
his  profession.  But  no  one  knew  that  the  agencies  by 
which  this  change  had  been  effected  were  a  few  strong 
words  spoken  to  him  by  Jane  Arnold  in  her  kitchen, 
and  frequent  contact  with  a  little  child. 

Mr.  Daunay  had  paid  him,  through  Annabel's  child- 
hood, to  come  twice  a  week  in  order  to  watch  over  her 
health  and  well-being.  He  was  at  first  rather  con- 
temptuous of  his  own  errand.  But  before  long  he  grew 
interested,  and  in  a  year  or  two  little  Annabel  had  him 
under  her  baby-thumb.  His  subjugation  was  complete 
when  he  had  pulled  her  through  a  childish  illness  in 
which  she  very  nearly  died.  After  that,  it  became  the 
supreme  pleasure  of  his  life  to  see  her  as  often  as  he 
could  manage  to  pass  that  way.  And  Jane  Arnold  had 
given  him  her  trust  and  friendship  too,  so  that  he  had 
grown  to  be  very  much  at  home  in  the  whitewashed 
house  on  the  hillside,  and  was  a  very  important  factor 
in  Annabel's  development  and  education.  It  may,  in- 
deed, be  roughly  said  that  all  the  intellectual  education 
she  ever  received  came  from  him.  Jane  Arnold  taught 
her  to  read,  write,  and  sew  ;  and  probably  would  never 
have  thought  of  teaching  her  anything  else.  She  once 
had  a  great  quarrel  with  Dr.  Lechmere  on  this  account. 
He  argued  that  as  Annabel  was  John  Daunay's  daugh- 
ter, and  might  some  day  be  mistress  of  Daunay's  Tower, 


Annabel.  41 

> 

she  ought  to  be  sent  to  school.  Jane  retorted  angrily 
that  school  would  make  a  fine  lady  of  her,  and  that  there 
was  not  the  least  reason  to  suppose  that  Mr.  Daunay 
meant  to  leave  her  his  money.  He  had  not  even  al- 
lowed the  girl  to  know  that  her  father  was  living.  He 
said  that  he  should  tell  her  of  the  relationship  when 
he  chose,  and  not  before. 

Lechmere  wrote  to  him  on  the  subject  of  the  girl's 
schooling,  and  did  himself  little  good  thereby,  although 
he  benefited  Annabel  in  the  long  run.  Mr.  Daunay 
refused  to  send  her  to  school,  told  the  doctor  that  his 
medical  services  were  no  longer  required,  but  sent 
money  to  Jane  Arnold  for  masters  and  mistresses  from 
Carlisle.  Annabel  was  taught  music  and  dancing, 
French  and  Italian,  for  five  years  of  her  life.  Mean- 
while Eugene  Lechmere  lost  two  hundred  a  year  for 
his  interference.  But  he  told  himself,  with  a  little 
shrug  of  the  shoulders,  that  he  cared  nothing  for 
that. 

He,  at  least,  guided  her  tastes,  talked  to  her  about 
Dante,  taught  her  the  violin.  Perhaps  it  was  chiefly 
for  her  sake  that  he  made  his  life  clean  and  orderly  ; 
she  influenced  him  almost  as  much  as  he  dominated 
her.  But  she  never  guessed  at  this  side  of  their  friend- 
ship ;  she  always  had  something '  of  a  schoolgirl's  air 
when  he  stood  before  her.  sharp  and  critical,  reading 
her  through  and  through  with  his  keen  eyes. 

"Yon  think  you  are  beyond  harm,  do  you?"  he 
asked,  after  regarding  her  fair  face  for  a  moment  or 
two.  "  You  are  invulnerable  ?" 

"  What  a  hard  word  !"  she  exclaimed. 

"  You  know  its  meaning  well  enough.  Allow  me  to 
remind  you  that  you  are  human,  after  all,  and  that  you 


42  Daunay's  Tower. 

will  get  into  mischief  some  day  if  you  don't  look  after 
yourself." 

Annabel  arched  her  eyebrows.   "  Is  the  lecture  done?  " 

"  The  lecture  is  done,  temporarily.  I  should  have 
thought  that  by  this  time  you  would  have  discovered 
that  my  lectures  go  on,  like  the  stream,  forever ;  and 
are  of  about  as  much  use,  I  suppose." 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  not  say  that,"  said  the  girl,  her 
eyes  suddenly  melting.  "  You  know  I  always  attend, 
really,  to  anything  that  you  wish.  I  have  practised  all 
the  scales  that  you  told  me  to  practise,  and  I  have 
studied  that  Latin  grammar  until  I  was  tired.  I  can 
say  all  the  declensions,  if  you  like  ;  and  all  because 
you  talked  so  seriously  to  me  when  you  were  here  a 
week  ago." 

"  Good  child  ! "  said  Lechmere,  letting  his  eyes  rest 
upon  her  kindly.  "  You  work  hard,  I  know.  I  only 
wish  you  played  hard,  too." 

"What  should  I  play  at  ?"  she  asked,  in  wonder. 

'*'  Oh,  there  are  plenty  of  things  to  play  at,"  said  the 
doctor,  resuming  the  sardonic  tone  which  he  usually 
employed.  "As  a  rule,  young  women  don't  need 
teaching  the  rules  of  the  game.  There  is  the  game  of 
dressing  yourself  beautifully,  you  know,  and  taking  the 
shine  out  of  every  other  woman  that  you  happen  to 
come  across.  There  is  the  game  of  making  men  love 
you,  and  breaking  their  hearts  by  scores  ;  that  is  a  very 
favorite  game  of  beautiful  women.  There  is  the  game 
of  falling  in  love  and  out  again  ;  and  the  best  game  of 
all,  that  of  getting  married  in  a  white  satin  gown  to  a 
man  who  has  thirty  thousand  a  year,  and  whom  you 
love,  therefore,  although  he  may  be  old  as  Methuselah, 
wicked  as  Satan,  and  ugly  as  sin." 


Annabel.  43 

"  And  yon  think  that  these  are  games  that  I  should 
care  to  play  at  ?  "  said  Annabel,  regarding  him  stead- 
fastly. 

"  You  are  a  woman,"  he  said,  his  hazel  eyes  trav- 
eling beyond  her — to  a  world  of  which  she  knew 
nothing,  and  which  he  himself  sometimes  forgot.  "  Do 
not  women  do  these  things  ?  " 

For  a  moment  she  did  not  answer  ;  then  she  turned 
her  face  away,  and  looked  at  the  lovely  valley  deep 
down  below  her,  where  the  river  shone  like  a  thread  of 
silver  in  the  sun. 

"  Surely,"  she  said  at  last,  "  you  have  told  me  of 
women  higher  and  nobler  than  these  ?  The  woman 
that  Dante  worshiped,  the  lady  for  whom  Sir  Kudol 
broke  his  heart,  the  queen  who  sucked  the  poison  from 
her  husband's  wounds " 

"Tut  !  these  were  in  the  Middle  Ages,"  he  said, 
"  and  we  live  in  the  nineteenth  century  now.  We 
would,  one  and  all  of  us,  sell  our  souls  for  gold.  Your 
queens  and  minstrels  and  poets  have  passed  away  with 
the  age  that  begot  them.  As  Candide  remarks,  we 
must  cultivate  our  garden." 

"  I  do  not  like  you  when  you  say  these  things,"  she 
answered  him ;  and  his  keen  eye  noted  a  faint  flush 
spreading  over  her  face  as  she  spoke.  You  frighten 
me.  I  cannot  think  that  what  you  say  is  true.  If  the 
world  is  like  that,  then  let  me  stay  here  forever,  and 
live  the  life  that  you  say  belongs  to  the  Middle  Ages, 
when  men  were  brave  and  gentle,  and  women  good  and 
true." 

For  a  minute  or  two  there  was  silence  ;  and  then 
Eugene  Lech  mere  spoke  with  gentleness  that  was  un- 
usual from  his  lips. 


44  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Forgive  me,  Annabel.  You  speak  as  all  true 
women  have  spoken,  in  all  the  ages  of  the  world.  There 
are  many  left  to  agree  with  yon.  You  must  not  mind 
what  an  old  cynic  like  myself  says  about  these  things." 

"Why  should  you  be  a  cynic,  I  wonder  ?"  said  An- 
nabel, with  frank  wonder  in  her  eyes.  "  It  seems  so 
unnatural ! " 

"Long  may  it  seem  so,"  the  doctor  responded  laugh- 
ingly. "  But  I  must  not  stay  talking  to  you  any 
longer  ;  I  have  some  business  with  your  aunt.  Shall  I 
find  her  indoors  ?  " 

"Let  me  find  her  for  you,"  said  Annabel. 

But  Dr.  Lechmere  waved  her  back.  "  I  know  where 
she  is  likely  to  be ;  don't  take  the  trouble ; "  and  he 
strode  off  in  his  quick,  agile  way  to  the  house,  where,  as 
it  happened,  he  met  Miss  Arnold  almost  at  the  door. 

Her  homely  face  brightened  at  the  sight  of  him,  then 
fell  a  little,  for  she  read  something  in  his  eyes  which 
startled  her. 

"  Bad  news  ?"  she  asked  briefly. 

He  walked  into  the  little  parlor  and  closed  the  door 
before  he  answered  her. 

"Unexpected  news,  at  any  rate,"  he  said.  "But  it 
is  the  unexpected  that  always  happens,  is  it  not  ?  Mr. 
Daunay  is  at  the  Tower,  and  is  coming  to  see  you  this 
afternoon." 

"  I  shall  send  Annabel  out." 

"I  am  afraid  you  must  not  do  that,  as  he  particu- 
larly wishes  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  his  daughter." 

Then  the  man  and  woman,  to  whom.  Annabel  was 
dearer  than  any  other  living  creature  in  the  world, 
stood  and  looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  as  if  they  felt 
the  approach  of  danger. 


A  Distant  Relation.  45 


CHAPTER  V. 

A   DISTANT   RELATION. 

THE  doctor  was  the  first  to  speak.  '  There's  no 
need  for  alarm,"  he  said,  though  it  was  plain  that  he 
was  trying  to  reassure  himself  as  well  as  Jane  Arnold  ; 
"  I  don't  suppose  he  wants  to  take  her  away.  A  man 
may  be  pardoned  for  wishing  to  see  his  daughter." 

"  She  has  spent  eighteen  years  here,  and  he  has  not 
cared  to  see  her,"  said  Jane,  rather  hoarsely.  She  sat 
down  suddenly,  as  if  the  strength  had  gone  out  of  her 
limbs.  "Did  he  send  you  to  tell  me  ?" 

"  No ;  but  possibly  he  intended  me  to  mention  it. 
And,  as  I  was  passing,  I  thought  I  would  let  you  know, 
so  that  you  would  be  prepared." 

He  observed  her  keenly  as  he  spoke.  Her  face  had 
turned  pale,  and  there  was  a  slightly  violet  tint  about 
her  lips  which  he  did  not  like  to  see.  He  knew  that 
her  heart  was  weak,  and  that  it  was  not  good  for  her 
to  be  startled. 

"  You  must  take  things  quietly,  Miss  Arnold. 
Surely  you  would  expect  Mr.  Daunay  to  turn  up  some 
day?" 

"I  had  given  up  expecting  him." 

"  Well,  he  has  come  at  last,  you  see,  and  we  must 
make  the  best  of  it." 

"  You  have  seen  him,  doctor  ?" 

"Yes;  he  sent  for  me  last  night.     He  was  afraid  of 


46  Daunay's  Tower. 

an  attack  of  gout,  but  it  seemed  to  have  passed  off  this 
morning." 

"Is  he  much  altered  ?"  said  Jane  ;  and  her  hands 
moved  nervously  in  her  lap. 

"Eighteen  years  leave  traces  on  most  of  us,  I'm 
afraid.  Even  you  and  I,  Miss  Arnold,  are  not  as  young 
as  we  once  were.  Mr.  Daunay  is  a  man  of  sixty  by 
this  time." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  woman,  with  a  quick  catching  of 
her  breath,  "  I  know  what  you  mean  by  that.  John 
Daunay's  old  and  gray,  I  suppose,  as  I  am  myself.  He 
was  like  a  brother  to  me,  was  John  Daunay,  at  one 
time,  and  there  was  nothing  I  wouldn't  have  done  for 
him.  He  knew  that,  perhaps,  when  he  trusted  me 
with  Annabel.  But  eighteen  years  !  To  have  kept 
away  from  her  eighteen  years  !  I  can't  forgive  him  for 
those  eighteen  years,  doctor.  And  if  he  takes  her 

away "  She  stopped  short,  and  pressed  her  hand 

to  her  side.  The  violet  tint  deepened  on  her  lips. 

"  You  want  some  brandy.  Where  do  you  keep  it  ?  " 
said  Dr.  Lechmere,  suddenly.  "  Ah,  I  know.  Keep 
still."  And  coolly  taking  a  bunch  of  keys  which  she 
had  laid  on  the  table,  he  selected  one,  with  which  he 
opened  a  sideboard,  whence  he  extracted  a  decanter 
and  a  glass.  "  You've  given  me  good  things  out  of 
this  sideboard  so  often,  Miss  Arnold,  that  I  know  where 
they  are  all  kept.  Now,  drink  this,  and  be  quiet  for  a 
minute  or  two.  Don't  you  remember  what  1  have  so 
often  told  you — that  you  ought  never  to  excite  your- 
self ?" 

"I'm  afraid  you  can't  control  the  course  of  nature," 
said  Jane  Arnold,  rather  grimly,  when  she  had  swal- 
]owed  the  cordial  and  remained  silent  for  a  few  minutes. 


A  Distant  Relation.  47 

"  One  might  as  well  be  a  cabbage  if  there  were  nothing 
in  the  world  to  excite  one's  self  about,  as  you  call  it." 

"Well,  be  a  cabbage,"  said  the  doctor,  curtly. 
"  You  had  better  be  a  cabbage  than  a  dead  woman." 

"  Do  you  mean  that,  doctor  ?  " 

"  That  statement  ?  Certainly  I  mean  it.  A  living 
dog  is  better  than  a  dead  lion,  as  I  have  been  told." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  I  have  a  mortal  disease  ?" 

"  Certainly  not.  I'm  not  sure  that  I  should  tell 
you  if  you  had.  But  I  only  accuse  you  at  present  of 
a  weak  heart,  Miss  Arnold,  and  it  is  for  Annabel's  sake 
as  well  as  your  own  that  I  ask  you  to  be  careful." 

"  I  will  do  my  best.  God  knows  I  don't  want  to 
leave  her,  nor  her  to  leave  me." 

"  No,  we  don't  want  that.  But  you  won't  think  it  a 
liberty  for  me  to  say  one  word  ?  " 

"  Say  what  you  like,  Dr.  Lechmere.  You've  been 
a  good  friend  to  Annabel  and  me,  although  there  was 
a  day  when  I  said  you  should  never  lay  a  finger  upon 
Betha's  child." 

"  I've  not  hurt  her,  I  believe,"  said  the  man,  with  a 
sudden  softening  of  the  brilliant  hazel  eyes,  which 
sometimes  looked  so  hard  and  critical.  "  I  have  given 
her  of  my  best,  such  as  it  is.  And  for  her  sake,  let  me 
just  say  this  one  thing  ;  our  interest  in  her,  our — our — 
love,  as  we  may  call  it,  for  her,  need  not  make  us  sel- 
fish, I  suppose.  If  John  Daunay  wants  to  take  her 
away  and  make  her  his  heiress,  you,  Miss  Arnold,  will 
be  doing  her  a  wrong  if  you  stand  in  the  way.  That's 
all.  I  was  bound  to  say  it,  whether  you  were  offended 
or  not." 

"I'm  not  offended.  I  like  plain  speaking,"  said 
Jane  Arnold,  who  now  looked  more  like  herself,  with 


48  Daunay's  Tower. 

a  healthy  color  in  her  cheeks  and  a  resolute  expres- 
sion in  her  eyes.  "  And  I'm  obliged  to  you,  doctor, 
for  giving  me  warning  beforehand.  It  would  have 
been  a  bit  of  a  shock  to  me  if  John  Daunay  had 
walked  in  and  taken  me  by  surprise.  I  shall  be  pre- 
pared for  him  now." 

"  That's  right,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere,  easily.  "  Now 
I  must  go  on  my  round,  I  suppose.  I  hope  Mr.  Daunay 
will  make  himself  agreeable.  It's  an  unprofessional 
thing  to  say,  but  he  never  struck  me  as  an  agreeable 
man." 

Jane's  mouth  relaxed  into  a  smile.  "  We  aren't  all 
agreeable,  down  in  Cumberland,  doctor." 

"Did  I  ever  say  you  were  ?  "  said  the  doctor.  "  I'm 
not  an  agreeable  man  myself." 

"  You'll  look  in  to-morrow,  won't  you  ?  "  said  Miss 
Arnold,  a  trifle  anxiously.  "  I  should  like  to  tell  you 
what  he  says." 

A  gleam  of  satisfaction  shone  from  Dr.  Lechmere's 
eyes.  "  Ah,  thank  you.  It  will  be  interesting  to  hear 
his  views  of  Annabel."  He  had  been  hankering  after 
the  invitation,  but  had  been  too  delicate  to  anticipate 
it.  He  shook  hands  with  his  hostess  and  took  a  swift 
departure,  looking  round  for  Annabel,  however,  as  he 
trod  the  garden  path.  But  Annabel  had  vanished,  and 
Dr.  Lechmere  touched  up  his  brown  cob  with  a  little 
disappointment  at  his  heart. 

But  the  disappointment  was  premature.  At  a  turn- 
ing in  the  road  he  came  upon  the  girl,  standing  in  a  space 
at  the  side,  where  the  rough  stone  wall  had  been  par- 
tially broken  down.  She  waved  her  hand  smilingly, 
and  Dr.  Lechmere  drew  up  so  suddenly  that  he  brought 
the  cob  almost  upon  its  haunches. 


A  Distant  Relation.  49 

"  Well,  have  you  seen  Aunt  Jane  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  You  spring  out  of  nothingness  like  a  sprite  or  a 
fairy,"  he  answered.  "  Go  home  and  take  care  of  her. 
She  is  not  over  strong." 

"She  is  not  ill  ?  "  said  Annabel,  quickly. 

"  Not  at  all.  But  she  would  be  better  if  she  rested 
more.  What  are  you  doing  now  ?  " 

She  had  gone  to  the  horse's  head,  and  was  stroking 
his  brown  nose  and  feeding  him  with  sugar. 

"Your  Brownie  is  a  dear  thing,"  she  said. 

"  Brownie  would  miss  you  if  you  went  away." 

She  gave  him  a  quick,  surprised  glance.  "  But  I 
am  not  going  away.  What  makes  you  say  that,  Dr. 
Lechmere  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I  was  speculating  on  possibilities, 
that  was  all.  Now,  if  the  sugar  is  all  done " 

"  Good-by,"  she  said,  with  a  merry  sparkle  in  her 
eyes.  "  I  know  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me." 

He  raised  his  hat  and  drove  on,  the  somewhat  in- 
scrutable smile  on  his  face  suggesting  that  he  did  not 
mean  to  natter  her  by  a  contradiction.  But  Annabel 
knew  him  too  well  to  think  that  her  presence  was  any- 
thing but  welcome. 

She  found  her  aunt  setting  things  in  order  in  the 
best  parlor,  in  a  somewhat  nervous  fashion,  sin- 
gularly unlike  herself.  Annabel  took  the  duster  and 
feather  brush  out  of  Miss  Arnold's  hands,  and  piloted 
her  gently  but  firmly  to  the  most  comfortable  arm- 
chair. 

"  Dr.  Lechmere  says  you  are  not  to  work  too    hard. 
What  do  you   mean  by   doing   my    dusting  all   over 
again  ?    Don't    I    dust    this    room    every    morning, 
auntie  ?  " 
4 


5o  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  We  are  to  have  a  visitor  this  afternoon,"  said  Jane 
Arnold,  "  and  I  thought  I  would  just  do  a  little  extra 
to  the  room.  But  it  doesn't  need  it,  I  know,  my 
dear." 

"  A  visitor  !  "We  have  very  few  visitors,  auntie.  Is 
it  old  Miss  Maberly,  or  Mr.  Crisp  ?  " 

"It  is  Mr.  Daunay,  Annabel,  from  the  Tower." 

Annabel  turned  round  quickly.  "  Mr.  Daunay  of 
Daunay's  Tower  ?  Your  landlord,  isn't  he,  Aunt  Jane  ? 
Oh,  we  must  certainly  have  everything  in  apple-pie 
order,  so  that  he  may  be  contented  with  his  tenants." 

"  Not  only  that,"  said  Miss  Arnold,  indefinitely — 
"  not  only  that,  Annabel."  Then,  as  her  niece  gazed 
at  her  in  some  perplexity,  she  added  hastily,  "  I  have 
never  told  you  before,  child,  but  I  must  tell  you  now 
that  he  is  a  relation  of  yours.  I  have  always  let  you 
know  that  I  could  never  have  afforded  the  things  you 
have  had — dresses  and  music-lessons  and  books  ;  it  was 
he  who  bought  them  for  you,  and  you  ought  to  know 
it  before  you  see  him." 

Annabel  changed  color.  "  Auntie,  I  think  I  ought 
to  have  known  this  before/'  But  she  said  it  very 
gently  and  sweetly.  "  Why,  I  have  never  even 
thanked  my  benefactor.  For  he  was  a  benefactor,  was 
he  not?" 

"  I  never  thought  of  him  in  that  light,"  said  Miss 
Arnold,  dully. 

"  Why,  auntie  !  When  he  was  so  kind  ?  But  I  wish 
I  had  known,  for  I  have  never  had  a  chance  of  being 
grateful  ;  besides,  if  I  had  imagined  that  an  unknown 
distant  relative  was  giving  me  things,  I  might  perhaps 
have  valued  them  more — not  have  taken  them  as  if  they 
were  what  I  had  a  right  to  expect." 


A  Distant  Relation.  51 

"  You  never  did  take  them  in  that  way,  Annabel." 

"  I  don't  know.  I  feel  as  if  I  must  have  been  un- 
gruteful.  And  now — how  am  I  to  thank  him  ?  " 

"  lie  will  not  wish  to  be  thanked.  He  did  not  wish 
you  to  know  that  there  was  a  relationship." 

"  How  very  odd  !  "  said  Annabel,  with  genuine  sur- 
prise. "  And  what  relation  is  he,  Aunt  Jane  ?  " 

"  I've  told  you  enougli  just  now,  my  dear,"  said  her 
aunt,  rising  and  beginning  to  pull  some  dead  leaves  off 
the  geranium  plants  with  which  a  stand  in  the  window 
was  filled.  "  I  think  he  would  rather  tell  you  himself. 
And  if  he  says  nothing  about  it,  you'd  best  not  ask.  I 
used  to  know  him  well,  and  I  know  that  in  old  days 
there  was  one  thing  he  couldn't  bear,  and  that  was  to 
be  questioned." 

"  He  must  be  rather  peculiar,"  said  Annabel, 
lightly.  "However,  I  will  be  very  quiet  and  well  be- 
haved. I  won't  speak  till  I'm  spoken  to,  like  a  good 
little  girl.  And  am  I  to  make  myself  look  nice  for 
him  ?  " 

"You  always  look  nice  in  my  eyes,  my  pretty,"  said 
Jane,  fondly.  "  But — you  can  put  on  one  of  your 
white  frocks  ;  I  think  you  look,  perhaps,  best  in 
white." 

"So  Dr.  Eugene  says,"  remarked  Annabel,  who 
sometimes  varied  the  doctor's  title  in  this  way.  "  And 
if  two  people  say  it,  it  must  be  true." 

She  went  away  singing,  and  Jane  Arnold  looked 
after  her  with  a  sense  of  uncomprehending  amaze. 
How  lightly  she  had  taken  a  communication  which 
would  have  filled  the  hearts  of  some  girls  with  actual 
alarm  !  For  did  she  not  see  that  it  was  important  for 
her  to  produce  a  pleasing  impression  on  the  mind  of 


52  Daunay's  Tower. 

their  "  distant  relation,"  as  she  had  dubbed  him, 
who  had  been  so  kind  to  her  ?  Jane  forgot  how 
little  Annabel  knew,  and  how  natural  it  seemed  to  her 
that  people  should  be  kind.  There  was  no  morbid 
self-consciousness  or  self-depreciation  about  the  girl ; 
she  was  simply  honestly  grateful  to  people  who  were 
good  to  her,  and  never  afraid  of  saying  so.  Her  aunt 
wondered  what  John  Daunay  would  think  of  her,  and 
whether  she  would  remind  him  painfully  of  Betha  ;  for 
Annabel  was  like  her  mother,  but  with  more  grace  and 
more  brilliance  than  Betha  ever  had. 

It  was,  perhaps,  the  half -concealed  weakness  of  Jane's 
health  that  made  her  so  nervous  that  morning.  An- 
nabel thought  her  strangely  unlike  herself  ;  but  in  a 
little  while  she  had  mastered  her  emotion,  and  was 
once  more  the  grave,  calm,  capable  woman  whom  the 
girl  had  always  known.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon she  was  sitting  in  the  parlor  with  her  sewing 
in  her  hands.  She  had  smoothed  her  gray  hair  under 
her  best  lace  cap — the  one  that  Annabel  made  for  her, 
with  its  gay  little  bow  of  pink  ribbon — and  she  had 
donned  her  black  silk  dress,  also  to  please  Annabel,  for 
she  herself  would  sooner  have  received  her  old  friend 
and  brother-in-law  in  her  working  garb.  But  Annabel 
was  shocked  at  the  idea,  so,  to  please  her,  Miss  Arnold 
made  herself,  as  she  called  it,  "  fine." 

As  for  Annabel  herself,  nothing  looked  "  fine  "  on 
her,  yet  nothing  was  unbecoming.  Her  soft  white 
muslin  frock  set  off  the  exquisite  refinement  of  her 
beauty  as  even  a  Court  dress  with  satin  train  might 
have  failed  to  do.  She  had  tied  a  blue  sash  round  her 
waist,  and  pinned  a  cluster  of  roses  in  her  bosom,  and 
she  looked,  as  she  always  did,  the  embodiment  of  cheer- 


A  Distant  Relation.  53 

ful  youth,  health,  and  innocence.  She  was  gay  as  a 
kitten,  untroubled  as  a  child.  Yet,  at  that  very  mo- 
ment her  aunt's  heart  was  sore  at  the  thought  of  the 
girl's  wrongs  ;  and  her  friend,  the  doctor,  driving  furi- 
ously along  the  country  roads,  was  in  a  black  rage  at 
the  very  idea  of  her  being  dragged  away  from  her  na- 
tive county  to  queen  it  in  her  father's  house  in  Lon- 
don. And  the  father  himself  was  full  of  a  strange 
hard  resentment  against  her,  and  a  dark  suspicionsness 
of  her  motives,  and  a  determination  not  to  be  bam- 
boozled or  beguiled,  which  would  have  surprised  and 
grieved  his  daughter  beyond  measure  could  she  have 
seen  into  his  heart  and  soul. 

At  fifteen  minutes  past  four  a  tall,  heavy  man  with 
gray  hair,  stooping  shoulders,  and  a  rather  grim  cast 
of  countenance,  walked  up  the  garden  path  and  knocked 
at  Miss  Arnold's  door.  And  she,  dropping  her  work 
and  casting  a  quick  glance  at  Annabel,  said  hur- 
riedly— 

"  That  is  Mr.  Daunay,  my  dear." 

Next  moment  Jonn  Daunay  walked  into  the  room. 


54  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

FATHER   AND    DAUGHTER. 

JANE  ARNOLD  had  risen  from  her  chair,  and,  with 
one  hand  on  the  center  table,  was  regarding  her  old 
acquaintance  with  much  distrust.  He  was  very  much 
altered,  she  told  herself.  Probably  he  was  saying  the 
same  thing  about  her.  Annabel  looked  on,  with  a  sort 
of  disinterested  curiosity.  She  did  not  quite  see  why 
these  two  old  people  should  be  agitated  at  meeting 
after  eighteen  years,  but  she  recognized  that  this  was 
the  fact,  and  that  she  was  an  outsider  for  the  moment. 
John  Daunay  came  forward  with  a  heavy  lurch,  and 
held  out  his  hand,  into  which  Jane  Arnold,  after 
a  moment's  perceptible  hesitation,  placed  her  own. 
Then  she  motioned  him  to  a  chair,  a  solid  wooden 
chair,  which  he  drew  up  to  the  window  with  an  air  of 
satisfaction,  and  sank  into  her  own  cushioned  seat  as 
if  the  opening  ceremony  of  a  great  occasion  were  over. 
She  had  not  looked  at  Annabel,  nor  had  Mr.  Daunay 
shown  any  consciousness  of  the  girl's  presence,  so  that 
Annabel  stood  amazed.  She  had  not  been  used  to 
being  made  of  so  little  importance. 

But  her  slight  figure,  erect  in  the  corner,  suddenly 
struck  on  Jane's  sensibilities. 

"  This  is  Annabel,"  she  said,  beckoning  the  girl 
forward,  and  putting  one  hand  upon  her  wrist. 


Father  and  Daughter.  55 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Daunay.  There  was  a  certain  thick- 
ness in  his  way  of  speaking.  He  looked  like  a  man 
who  might  have  an  apoplectic  seizure  at  any  moment. 
"  Annabel,  is  it  ?  A  well-grown  girl.  Come  and  shake 
hands  with  me,  my  dear." 

Annabel  laid  her  slender  fingers  within  his  great  red 
paw,  and  looked  at  him  meditatively. 

"  I  hope  you  are  a  good  girl,"  he  said  to  her,  in  a 
benevolent  and  condescending  manner,  "  and  do  not 
give  any  trouble  to  your  aunt." 

"  I  try  to  be  good,"  said  Annabel,  with  a  literal  air ; 
"but  it's  rather  difficult  sometimes,  is  it  not  ?" 

He  stared  at  her  helplessly.  She  was  evidently  not 
the  sort  of  girl  that  he  had  expected  to  find.  He 
looked  from  her  to  Jane,  and  back  again  to  Annabel. 

"  Well,  Jane,"  he  said  at  last,  "you've had  eighteen 
years  of  her,  and  what  is  she  likely  to  turn  out  ?  What 
is  she  fit  for  ?  You've  the  best  right  to  say." 

Annabel  stepped  backward  a  pace  or  two.  "  Shall  I 
go  ?  "  she  said  to  her  aunt,  with  some  abruptness  of 
tone.  "If  you  would  like  to  give  Mr.  Daunay  your 
opinion  of  rny  character,  I  think  I  had  better  depart." 

"  No,  no,"  said  Miss  Arnold,  deprecatingly,  while 
John  Daunay  said,  "  Stay  where  you  are,"  in  a  voice 
which  would  have  done  credit  to  the  proverbial  bull  of 
Bashan.  Annabel  stayed,  but  her  face  grew  red  as 
fire. 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  can  describe  Annabel,"  said 
Miss  Arnold,  rather  stiffly.  "  She  is  a  good  girl  ;  that 
is  perhaps  the  highest  praise  I  can  give  to  any  young 
woman." 

"  It  may  be  enough  in  your  Cumberland  fells ;  it 
isn't  enough  for  London,"  said  Mr.  Daunay. 


56  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Your  Cumberland  fells,  John  I"  said  Jane  Arnold, 
with  a  sudden  keen  glance  which  made  the  man  wince 
in  spite  of  himself. 

"  Well,  my  fells,  if  you  like,"  he  answered,  in  rather 
a  surly  tone.  "  I  was  born  and  bred  here,  it  is  true, 
and  I  own  an  old  house  and  some  acres  of  barren  land  ; 
but  I  have  not  been  here  for  eighteen  years,  and  I  feel 
as  if  London  were  more  my  home.  But  the  old  place 
— well,  it's  a  place  one  does  not  altogether  forget,  after 
all." 

Jane  sighed  and  was  silent,  but  Annabel  was  not 
in  the  habit  of  being  silent  when  her  feelings  were 
aroused. 

"I  cannot  imagine  how  anybody  can  forget  this 
place,"  she  said.  "  The  dear,  beautiful  hills,  the  pure 
air,  the  lovely  valley  !  One  ought  to  be  proud  of  be- 
longing to  it  rather  than  to  a  smoky,  grimy  place  like 
London,  I  am  sure." 

John  Daunay  slightly  lowered  his  head — it  seemed  to 
flatten  itself  a  little  like  the  head  of  a  snake — as  he 
listened  to  her.  The  pure  accent,  the  charming  timbre 
of  voice,  were  not  perhaps  what  he  had  expected  to 
hear.  He  glanced  at  her  in  a  furtive  kind  of  way,  from 
under  his  heavy  lowered  eyelids. 

"  You  have  an  opinion  of  your  own,  it  seems/'  he 
said,  with  ponderous  sarcasm. 

"  Of  course  I  have,"  said  Annabel. 

"  And  no  hesitation  in  expressing  it  ?  " 

"  Not  when  I  know  I  am  right.  And  naturally  I  am 
right  in  preferring  Cumberland  to  London.  I  am  sure 
Mr.  Ruskin  would  say  so." 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Buskin  ?  and  who  told  you  anything 
about  London  ?  " 


Father  and  Daughter.  57 

"Ruskin  ?  but  you  know  his  writings,  don't  you  ?  " 
said  Annabel,  looking  up  with  glowing  eyes. 

"  An  author,  is  he  ?  Never  mind  him,  then ;  he 
will  keep.  Who  has  been  talking  to  you  about 
London  ?" 

For  once  Annabel  hesitated.  "I  suppose  I  have 
gathered  my  ideas  of  London  from  various  sources," 
she  said  at  last.  "  And  some  things  Dr.  Lechmere  has 
said  have  lingered  in  my  mind." 

'*  Lechmere  !  I  knew  it,"  cried  the  old  man,  bring- 
ing his  hand  down  with  violence  on  his  knee.  "  Lech- 
mere, the  jail-bird,  the  rogue  !  the  drunken,  evil- 
spoken,  ill-living  fool " 

"That  is  not  true  !  Not  a  word  of  what  you  say  is 
true,"  cried  Annabel,  with  vehemence.  "I  call  upon 
Aunt  Jane  to  tell  you  that  you  have  a  very  wrong 
opinion  of  Dr.  Lechmere.  Speak,  Aunt  Jane,  and  tell 
Mr.  Daunay  what  sort  of  a  man  our  Dr.  Lechmere  is." 

"Upon  my  word  ! "  John  Daunay  ejaculated  feebly. 
"  Well,  this  young  lady  can  speak  up  for  her  favor- 
ites, it  seems  ! " 

"  She's  perfectly  right,"  said  Jane  Arnold,  lifting 
her  head.  "  Dr.  Lechmere  was  a  wild  young  fellow 
when  he  came  here  first,  but  he  has  sobered  down.  He 
is  very  much  respected  in  the  neighborhood,  and  he 
has  been  a  very  good  friend  to  us." 

"  Much  more  than  that,"  said  Annabel,  rapidly. 
"  If  a  kind  deed  is  waiting  to  be  done,  it  is  Dr.  Lech- 
mere who  does  it.  If  any  one  is  ill,  and  there  is  no- 
body to  sit  up,  it  is  Dr.  Lechmere  who  sacrifices  his 
night's  rest  for  his  patient.  He  is  always  ready  to 
attend  the  sick  whenever  and  wherever  he  is  called, 
night  and  day.  And  if  he  has  to  choose  between  a  rich 


58  Daunay's  Tower. 

patient  and  a  poor  one,  it  is  the  rich  one  that  he  gives 
up." 

"  More  fool  he,"  said  Mr.  Daunay. 

"  There  is  no  one  more  loved  or  looked  up  to  about 
here,"  continued  Annabel,  hotly.  "  He  goes  to  the 
best  houses  as  well  as  the  worst,  if  you  think  that  is 
any  credit  to  him.  The  marchioness  herself  sent  for 
him  the  other  day.  And  I  heard  it  said  that  if  he 
chose  to  go  to  London  he  could  make  a  fortune  in  no 
time." 

"As  a  quack,"  said  the  old  man,  sourly.  "His 
brother  practitioners  wouldn't  recognize  him  in  Lon- 
don, I  can  tell  you.  He  has  been  kicked  out  of  his 
profession  as  far  as  they  are  concerned.  That  is  why 
he  has  buried  himself  in  this  obscure  part  of  the  world, 
where  he  hopes  that  nobody  knows  his  story." 

"  What  is  his  story  ?  "  said  Annabel,  point-blank, 
and  scornfully.  Then  she  caught  herself  up,  and 
spoke  with  extraordinary  decision.  "  No,  I  don't 
want  to  hear  it.  Please  don't  tell  me.  I  would  rather 
not  know." 

"You  prefer  to  think  your  paragon  perfect  in  every 
way  ?  "  said  Mr.  Daunay,  with  a  sneer. 

"  I  don't  think  him  perfect  in  the  least.  But  if  he 
wanted  me  to  know  his  past  history,  he  would  have 
told  us  himself." 

"  So  likely,  is  it  not,  that  a  man  will  tell  what  is  to 
his  own  disadvantage  ?  Well,  I  am  not  going  to  tell 
you  all  I  know.  I  did  not  come  here  to  discuss  Eugene 
Lechmere,  but  to  make  acquaintance  with  you." 

"  That  was  very  good  of  you,"  said  Annabel,  gravely. 
"  And  1  think  I  ought  to  say  that  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness  to  me  in  the  past. 


Father  and  Daughter.  59 

Aunt  Jane  has  told  mo  that  I  owe  my  education  and 
many  other  things  to  you." 

Mr.  Dauuay  eyed  her  suspiciously.  He  thought  at 
first  that  he  divined  a  gibe  in  her  words,  but  the  sin- 
cerity of  her  candid  eyes  reassured  him.  He  had  seen 
enough  of  the  world  to  recognize  truth  and  candor 
when  they  came  in  his  way. 

"I  hope,"  he  said  dryly,  "that  you  have  had  the 
wits  to  profit  by  your  education.  What  can  yon  do  ?" 

Annabel's  eyes  danced.  "lean  make  butter,"  she 
said,  "  and  I  can  cook  and  sew.  I  am  told  that  those 
are  the  things  that  men  like  best  for  women  to  do." 

"  But  I  didn't  send  money  to  pay  for  cooking  and 
sewing,"  said  Mr.  Daunay. 

"  Annabel  has  had  a  great  many  lessons  from  the 
best  masters  and  mistresses  in  Carlisle,"  said  Miss 
Arnold,  with  a  reproachful  glance  at  the  girl.  "She 
can  play  the  piano  and  the  violin,  and  she  makes  very 
pretty  pictures  too." 

"  Can  you  sing  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  abruptly. 

"  I  will  sing  to  you  now  if  you  like,"  said  Annabel, 
with  perfect  ease  and  pleasantness.  "  Then  you  can 
see  whether  you  like  my  voice.  Have  you  any  favorite 
song  that  you  would  like  ?  " 

"I  don't  know  enough  about  music  to  have  any 
favorite  songs.  But,  for  God's  sake,  sing  English; 
none  of  your  foreign  trumpery." 

The  girl  laughed.  "  I  like  English  songs  too,"  she 
said,  "  so  we  are  alike  on  that  point." 

Jane  Arnold,  aghast  at  her  niece's  audacity,  stole  a 
quick  look  at  John  Daunay,  and  discerned  that  the  no- 
tion of  a  likeness  between  him  and  his  daughter  had 
given  him  a  thrill.  There  was  a  grateful  look  on 


60  Daunay's  Tower. 

his  face,  almost  the  dawn  of  a  smile.  Jane  drew  a 
breath  of  relief.  Annabel's  manner,  although  perfectly 
simple  and  courteous,  was  very  unlike  the  manners 
which  had  been  inculcated  on  young  ladies  when 
Jane  was  young.  She  had  feared  lest  John  Daunay 
should  be  shocked  by  it.  But  possibly  Mr.  Daunay 
was  not  without  experience  of  the  modern  woman. 

Annabel's  fingers,  gliding  over  the  yellow  keyboard 
in  one  of  Purcell's  charmingly  naive  melodies,  drew  a 
good  deal  of  music  out  of  the  old  piano.  Her  voice,  a 
very  sweet  and  flexible  soprano,  of  no  great  strength, 
but  with  the  sympathetic  quality  which  adds  a  double 
charm,  was  precisely  suited  to  the  little  runs  and  trills 
of  the  song  that  she  had  chosen.  Dr.  Lechmere  always 
said  that  she  sang  like  a  bird,  with  a  natural  ease  and 
sweetness  which  owed  nothing  to  art  at  all.  At  any 
rate,  she  succeeded  in  pleasing  John  Daunay. 

"  Good,  good  :  I  like  that,"  he  said  approvingly,  at 
the  end  of  the  song.  "  Sensible  girl  to  choose  songs 
of  that  sort.  And  you  have  the  music  at  your  fingers' 
ends  too,  I  see." 

"  Annabel  plays  the  violin, "said  Jane,  suggestively. 

"  Shall  I  fetch  it  ?  "  Annabel  asked  placidly.  "  You 
want  to  see  and  hear  what  I  can  do,  I  think,  do  you 
not,  sir  ?  It  is  like  an  examination ;  only  " — with  a 
regretful  air — "  if  I  had  known  you  were  coming,  I 
would  have  practised  up  something  on  purpose.  You 
have  given  me  no  opportunity  of  showing  off  ! " 

Mr.  Daunay  actually  laughed.  The  girl  pleased  him 
— almost  against  his  will.  She  was  a  little  like  poor 
Betha  ;  but  Betha  had  been  pretty  and  nothing  else. 
Annabel  had  Betha's  good  looks  and  his  keen  wits,  and 
a  sense  of  humor  which  seemed  all  her  own. 


Father  and  Daughter.  61 

"  Get  your  fiddle,"  he  said  good-naturedly,  "  and 
let  us  hear  how  you  make  it  squeak.  Play  us  a  rousing 
tune." 

With  a  little  smile,  Annabel  did  as  she  was  told. 
She  played  some  dance  music,  and  wild  Highland  airs 
which  Eugene  Lechmere  had  taught  her.  The  mirth 
of  the  dances,  the  pathos  of  the  pibrochs  with  their 
long-drawn  wailing  notes,  were  not  lost  upon  John 
Daunay,  rough  and  almost  brutal  as  he  looked. 

"  You  don't  play  badly,"  he  said  at  last.  "  Who 
taught  you  ?  " 

"  Dr.  Lechmere,"  said  Annabel. 

"  Oh — da — confound  Dr.  Lechmere  !  What  business 
had  he  to  become  your  music-master  ?  " 

"  He  has  taught  me  very  well — don't  you  think  so  ?" 
said  Annabel,  with  clear  composed  eyes.  He  taught 
me  Italian,  too.  He  is  a  very  accomplished  man." 

"  Italian  ! " 

"  Yes  ;  and  about  Dante  and  Italian  art,  and  all  sorts 
of  lovely  things  !  I  think  I  should  die  of  joy  if  ever  I 
went  to  Italy.  I  long  to  see  the  world  !  " 

"  Why,  Annabel,"  said  Miss  Arnold,  in  a  plaintive 
tone,  "  it  was  only  the  other  day  that  I  heard  you  say 
you  were  sure  that  Cumberland  was  the  most  beautiful 
place  in  the  whole  wide  world." 

"  So  it  is,"  said  Annabel  briskly.  "  But  I  want  to 
see  the  ugly  places  too.  Not  that  Italy  can  be  ugly." 

"I  don't  care  much  for  Italy  myself,"  said  John 
Dannay.  "  A  poor  country — people  very  much  over- 
taxed, and  buildings  in  sad  disrepair.  Paris,  now — 
Paris  is  a  place  where  you  can  enjoy  yourself.  Do  you 
know  French,  my  dear  ?" 

"  A  little,"  said  Annabel,  modestly.     "  I  can  read 


62  Daunay's  Tower. 

it,  and  talk  it — not  very  correctly  ;  but  Madame  Pel- 
lotier  said  that  my  accent  was  good,  and  that  I  should 
pick  it  up  directly  if  I  went  to  France.  But  I  am  not 
very  likely  to  go  to  France,  am  I  ?  " 

"  There's  no  reason  why  you  should  not,  if  you  have 
the  fancy  for  it,"  said  Mr.  Dannay. 

Annabel  looked  at  him  with  large  attentive  eyes. 
"  I  should  have  thought  there  was  every  reason/'  she 
said.  "  I  have  no  money,  to  begin  with  ;  and  I  have 
nobody  to  go  with." 

"  You  could  go  with  me,  eh  ?  "  said  John  Daunay, 
laughing  awkwardly. 

"  With  you  ?  "    Annabel  was  politely  surprised. 

"  With  me,  young  lady  ;  and  I  don't  know  who  would 
have  a  better  right.  Your  aunt  doesn't  seem  to  have 
told  you  of  the  relationship  between  us." 

"  No.     She  said  that  you  were — a  distant  relation." 

"  Ho,  ho  !  Distant,  indeed  !  The  nearest  you  have, 
my  dear,  and  about  the  nearest  you  could  have,  any 
way.  I  had  my  reasons  for  not  telling  you  before  ; 
but  there's  no  reason  why  you  should  not  know  now, 
nor  why  you  should  not  be  glad  of  the  information. 
I'm  your  father,  Annabel,  and  you  are  my  only  child." 


John  Daunay's  Plan.  63 


CHAPTER  VII. 
DAUNAY'S  PLAN. 


ANNABEL  turned  pale.  It  was  almost  the  first  time 
in  her  life  that  any  piece  of  news  had  had  that  effect 
upon  her,  and  Jane  Arnold  rose  to  her  feet  in  alarm, 
with  her  hand  pressed  to  her  side.  But  a  glance  from 
the  girl's  serious  eyes  reassured  her.  Annabel  was  not 
weak,  but  she  was  certainly  startled,  and  had  to  adjust 
herself  to  her  new  relationship  before  she  could  speak 
rationally  and  to  the  point.  Accordingly  she  kept 
silence  for  a  minute  or  two,  looking  from  her  aunt  to 
her  newly-found  father  with  a  curious  sort  of  question 
in  her  eye. 

"  You  are  my  father  ?  "  she  said,  at  length.  "  Aunt 
Jane  —  you  have  known  this  all  along,  Aunt  Jane  ? 
You  know  that  it  is  true  ?  " 

"  Yes,  it  is  quite  true,  my  dearie,"  sighed  Aunt  Jane. 

"And  my  name  is  Annabel  Daunay,  not  Arnold, 
like  yours  ?  " 

"  Annabel  Daunay  it  is/'  said  her  father,  decisively. 
"Annabella,  to  give  all  the  syllables,  like  the  lady 
who  was  your  great-grandmother,  and  whose  portrait 
hangs  in  the  long  corridor  at  Daunay's  Tower." 

"That  may  be,"  said  Annabel;  "but  I  have  never 
set  foot  in  Daunay's  Tower,  so  long  as  I  have  lived." 

"You  were  born  there,  nevertheless,"  said  Mr. 
Daunay,  restlessly. 


64  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  I  was  born  there  ?     Where  is  my  mother  then  ?  " 

"  She  lies  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Andrew's-on-the- 
Hill,  dear,"  interposed  Jane  Arnold,  soothingly.  "  I 
stood  beside  the  grave  with  your  father  and  Dr. 
Lechmere  when  she  was  laid  to  rest,  and  I  have  cared 
for  you  ever  since." 

"Yes,  dear,  and  you  have  my  heart's  best  love/'  said 
the  girl,  almost  passionately  ; "  and  why  should  any 
man  come  and  tell  me  that  he  is  my  father — now  9  " 

She  drew  near  to  her  aunt,  and  laid  her  hand  upon 
Jane  Arnold's  shoulder.  She  was  drawn  to  her  full 
height,  and  her  eyes  darkened  ominously  as  they  met 
her  father's  gloomy  gaze  ;  her  face  was  still  pale, 
and  her  lips  were  set  in  a  thin  straight  line.  Evident- 
ly she  was  not  prepared  to  accept  her  new  relationship 
without  a  struggle. 

"  I  am  your  father,"  John  Daunay  said,  ' '  and  I 
have  given  you  all  that  yon  prize  throughout  your  life- 
time. I  have  a  claim  on  you  ;  but  I'm  quite  prepared 
to  waive  that  claim.  I  only  want  to  know  whether 
there  are  no  ways  in  which  I  can  help  you — ways  in 
which  I  can  carry  out  any  of  your  plans." 

Annabel's  face  softened,  involuntarily.  "  That  is 
kind  of  you,"  she  said.  "  But  why  did  you  not  let  me 
know  before  ?  Why  did  you  not  let  me  know  that  you 
were  my  father  ?  I  should  have  felt  so  differently  now." 

Thus  brought  to  book,  John  Daunay  did  not  know 
how  to  reply,  nor  how  to  meet  the  candid  gaze  of  his 
daughter's  eyes. 

"  I  thought  it  better  for  you  to  be  with  your  aunt 
than  with  me,"  he  said  at  length,  rather  huskily.  "  I 
was  wandering  about ;  I  had  no  settled  home  ;  I 
could  not  have  made  you  happy." 


John  Daunay's  Plan.  65 

"  I  can  quite  see  that,"  said  Annabel  ;  "  but  I  don't 
gee  why  I  could  not  have  known  that  I  had  a  father 
living.  I  should  not  have  felt  so  lonely  then." 

"  Annabel ! " 

The  exclamation  came  from  Jane  Arnold ;  and  it 
expressed  so  much  pain,  that  the  girl  felt  a  pang  of 
genuine  remorse.  She  turned  and  put  her  arm  round 
her  aunt's  neck. 

"Dearest  auntie  !"  she  said;  "you  know  I  don't 
mean  that  you  ever  let  me  feel  lonely.  But  I  did  wish 
sometimes  that  I  had  a  father  and  a  mother  of  my 
own.  And  it  seems  I  had  one  all  the  time  ;  and  he — he 
cared  so  little  for  me  that  he  never  let  me  know  whether 
he  was  alive  or  dead." 

"I  don't  understand  girls,"  said  her  father,  rather 
sullenly.  "  I  did  not  know  that  yon  would  care  one 
way  or  another.  I  acted  for  the  best." 

Annabel  stood  and  looked  at  him.  "  You  were 
generous,  certainly, "she  said.  "  But  girls — you  don't 
understand  them,  as  you  say.  The  least  little  bit  of 
personal  interest  is  more  to  a  girl  than  all  the  money 
you  spend  upon  them,  don't  you  see  ?  " 

John  Daunay  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  a  miserable  old 
man,"  he  said  brokenly.  "  These  things  come  upon 
me  too  late — I  don't  understand.  I  should  like  to 
be  friendly  with  you  now  ;  you  are  Betha's  child, 
but " 

Then  Miss  Arnold  stirred  in  her  chair,  and  took 
Annabel  by  the  hand. 

"  Go  to  him,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  and  tell  him  you 
will  be  a  good  daughter  to  him  if  he  likes.  It  is  your 
duty,  Annabel."  ' 

Annabel  looked  at  her  uncertainly. 
5 


66  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  It  is  your  duty,  my  dear.     e  Honor  thy  father  '- 
that   is   what    the    Bible    says.     Honor    your   father 
now. " 

The  girl  wavered  visibly.  Her  color  came  and  went ; 
her  hands  began  to  tremble.  Finally,  she  left  her 
aunt's  side,  and  approached  the  armchair  in  which  her 
father  sat,  with  his  forehead  bowed  upon  his  hand. 
"  Father  ! "  she  said,  and  sank  involuntarily  upon  her 
knees. 

The  action  seemed  melodramatic  ;  it  was,  in  reality, 
perfectly  natural.  She  craved  affection  ;  she  longed 
for  her  father's  blessing.  A  word  of  real  affection 
from  her  father  would  have  bound  her  to  him  forever. 
Unfortunately,  John  Daunay  was  not  the  sort  of  man 
who  could  respond  easily  to  any  demand  upon  his  emo- 
tions. He  was  worried  and  distressed  by  Annabel's 
attitude  ;  and  the  only  way  to  escape  from  the  situa- 
tion was  to  speak  querulously. 

"  My  dear  girl/'  he  said  ;  "for  goodness' sake,  don't 
let  us  have  any  heroics.  You  are  my  daughter,  and  I 
mean  to  do  what  is  right  by  you,  just  as  you  mean,  I 
am  sure,  to  do  what  is  right  by  me.  Get  up  ;  don't 
kneel  on  the  floor,  but  listen  to  me  and  do  what  I  tell 
you." 

"  Won't  you  kiss  me  once  even,  father  ?  "  Annabel 
said  piteously. 

"Oh  yes,  yes,  of  course."  And  Mr.  Daunay  de- 
posited a  careless  salute  on  the  top  of  his  daughter's 
head.  "  Kissing's  not  much  in  my  line,  Annabel. 
But  I  suppose  you  feel  you  have  a  right  to  it,  as  I  have 
not  seen  you  since  you  were  a  baby.  But  I  can  give 
you  more  substantial  benefits  than  kisses." 

Annabel  rose  to  her  feet.     "  Let  me  know  what  they 


John  Daunay's  Plan.  67 

are  before  I  bargain  to  accept  them,"  she  said ;  and 
her  voice  was  as  dry  as  that  of  John  Daunay  himself. 

It  was  then  that  Jane  Arnold  left  her  seat  and  turned 
to  the  door. 

"  I'll  leave  you  to  have  your  talk  out/'  she  said 
quietly.  "  I've  some  things  to  attend  to,  and  I'll  bring 
in  the  tea  presently.  Two's  company  and  three's 
none  ;  I  know  that  well  enough." 

She  went  out,  although  Annabel's  instinct  was  to 
detain  her.  And  John  Daunay  looked  after  her  un- 
easily. 

"  She's  altered,"  he  murmured  to  himself.  "  Poor 
old  Jane  !  We're  not  so  young  as  we  were — we've  had 
our  day.  It's  the  young  people  we  have  to  think  of 
now."  • 

He  was  evidently  in  a  milder  mood,  and  his  daughter 
looked  at  him  with  softening  interest.  "What  was  he 
going  to  propose  to  do  ? 

"  Well,  Annabel,"  he  said,  looking  up  as  if  he  were 
awakening  from  a  dream,  "  you're  a  woman  now,  and 
I  suppose  you  want  a  woman's  privileges.  Surely  by 
this  time  you  want  to  see  a  little  of  the  world  ?  " 

The  girl  thought  of  what  Dr.  Lechmere  had  been 
saying  to  her  that  very  morning,  and  her  answer  was 
given  with  hesitation. 

"  There  are  some  things  that  I  should  like  to  see 
very  much,"  she  said  at  last. 

"  I  should  think  anything  would  do.  You've  seen 
nothing  yet.  Some  things,  indeed  !  I  suppose,  like 
other  girls,  you'd  enjoy  dancing-parties,  play-going, 
drives  in  your  own  carriage,  rides  on  your  own  horse  ? 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  go  to  Court,  and  be  presented  to 
the  Queen  ?  Eh  ?  Wouldn't  you  like  some  pretty 


68  Daunay's  Tower. 

new  dresses  and  diamonds,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ? 
Come,  speak  the  truth  and  shame  the  devil  !  A  pretty 
girl  like  you  would  soon  have  the  ball  at  your  feet." 

"  Yes,"  said  Annabel,  slowly,  but  with  a  little  smile 
flickering  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth,  "  I  am  sure  I 
should  enjoy  all  that  very  much  indeed.  And  I  should 
like  to  know  a  great  deal  more  than  I  do  now.  I 
should  like  some  more  lessons,  if  you  would  be  so 
kind " 

"  Oh,  lessons  !  You  won't  have  much  time  for 
lessons,"  said  Mr.  Daunay,  in  a  voice  of  contempt. 
"Your  balls  and  your  dresses  will  take  up  most  of 
your  time,  never  fear.  I've  got  a  house  near  the  Park 
— pleasant  little  place,  though  confoundedly  dear — 
and  you  can  have  ^s  much  of  a  fling  as  you  please." 

"You  are  rich,  then,  father  ?" 

"  Of  course  I  am  rich — up  to  a  certain  point,"  said 
her  father,  suspiciously.  "  You  don't  suppose  I  could 
live  as  I  mean  to  do  on  nothing  a  year,  I  presume  ? 
I'm  a  good  deal  better  off  than  I  was  twenty  years  ago  : 
I  got  hold  of  a  good  thing  or  two  in  South  Africa, 
and  money  makes  money.  I  suppose — if  you  want 
to  know — I'm  worth  thirty  thousand  a  year  at  the  very 
least.  What  do  you  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  And  we  all  thought  you  were  a  poor  man  ! "  said 
Annabel,  innocently. 

"  Eh  ?     What  made  people  think  that  ?  " 

"  Because  of  the  Tower,  father."  The  word  came 
out  shyly,  but  she  thought  that  she  ought  to  use  it  now 
and  then.  "It  looks  so  dilapidated  and  miserable. 
I  have  often  wondered  why  you  did  not  live  there." 

"  Live  in  that  barn  of  a  place  ?  " 

"I  dare  say  it  might  be  made  beautiful.     Dr.  Lech- 


John  Daunay's  Plan.  69 

mere  says  it  is  very  barbarous,  and  that  the  architec- 
ture is  all  wrong,  but  that  it  has  great  capabilities." 

"  Ha  !  He's  speculating  on  the  chance  of  it,  is  he  ?" 
muttered  Daunay  with  a  frown  ;  but  fortunately  Anna- 
bel did  not  understand. 

"People  have  wondered  why  you  did  not  let  it," 
she  went  on  frankly  ;  "but  I  never  wondered  at  that. 
It  must  be  awful  to  have  strangers  in  your  own  house, 
taking  possession  of  the  rooms  where  you  used  to  sit — 
you  and  those  you  loved.  Father  ! " — drawing  a  little 
nearer  to  him  and  speaking  softly — "  may  I  go  to  the 
Tower  some  day  and  look  at — at  my  mother's  room  ?  " 

"  You  may  do  what  you  like,  if  you're  a  good  girl," 
said  her  father,  almost  complacently  ;  for  it  was  pleas- 
ant to  see  this  beautiful  young  woman  compelled  to 
ask  favors  from  him  and  to  render  him  obedience. 
"And,  as  you  say,  I'm  not  one  for  putting  lodgers  into 
my  own  house.  It's  not  a  bad  old  place  for  a  couple  of 
months  in  the  year.  I  might  send  workmen  in  and  have 
it  thoroughly  well  done  up,  invite  a  lot  of  people  down 
and  make  the  roof  ring — eh,  Annabel  ?  " 

"  How  delightful  that  would  be  ! "  said  the  girl,  smil- 
ing on  him.  In  her  inexperience  she  had  not  the  slight- 
est notion  of  the  difficulties  which  would  beset  her  path 
if  she  were  installed  as  mistress  of  her  father's  house. 
The  plan  sounded  charming — all  the  more  charming 
because  it  did  not  involve  her  leaving  the  neighbor- 
hood of  her  dear  old  home. 

"  But  in  the  meantime,"  said  Mr.  Daunay,  "  we 
should  have  to  make  other  arrangements.  You  see  it's 
high  summer  now,  and  the  season's  over  in  town  :  the 
London  house  is  shut  up  for  the  present,  and  Fm  living 
at  my  club.  By  and  by  I  think  of  joining  a  party  of 


70  Daunay's  Tower. 

friends  in  Scotland,  and  I've  an  invitation  for  you  to 
go  there  as  well.  You'd  have  to  come  up  to  town  and 
see  about  your  frocks  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  But 
Edith  Daunay  would  look  to  that." 

"  Edith  Daunay  ?  "  Annabel  repeated,  in  a  kind  of 
stupefaction.  "  Is  that  the  name  of  a — a— relation  of 
ours  ?  " 

"  A  cousin — a  far-away  cousin.  I  had  some  trouble 
in  hunting  them  up.  But  I  knew  there  must  be  some 
cousins,  if  only  one  could  get  at  them,  and  I  had  my 
reasons  for  wishing  to  see  what  they  were  like." 

"  And  are  they  nice  ?"   said  Annabel,  breathlessly. 

"  Nice  ?  H'm.  I  don't  know  what  you  call  nice. 
Fine,  well  set-up  young  people,  both  of  'em.  Father 
and  mother  dead  ;  it  was  the  father  that  was  my  second 
cousin,  you  see.  These  two  are  the  son  and  daughter 
of  my  cousin  Alfred  Daunay.  He  was  only  a  poor 
curate  or  something  of  the  kind,  but  he  did  well  for 
himself  in  one  way  ;  he  married  a  lady  of  title — Lady 
Mary  Somebody — and  she's  left  'em  her  good  looks. 
Miss  Edith — oh,  she's  what  you'd  call  elegant ;  but 
the  boy's  the  chap  for  me  !  Just  three  and  twenty — 
left  college  the  other  day — wants  to  go  tiger-hunting. 
Fine,  manly  fellow,  without  a  bit  of  vice  in  him. 
You'll  find  him  ready  to  run  in  harness  as  soon  as  ever 
you  like." 

"Why should  he  run  in  harness  ?"said  Annabel,  a 
little  puzzled,  but  she  was  too  much  pleased  and  excited 
by  the  vision  of  new  relations  to  pay  much  attention  to 
her  father's  phrase.  "  Oh,  how  I  long  to  see  them  ! 
Perhaps  my  cousin  Edith  will  be  like  a  sister  to  me. 
I  have  always  longed  for  a  sister." 

"  She'll  be  quite  ready,"  said  Daunay,  with  a  chuck- 


John  Daunay's  Plan.  71 

ling  laugh.  "  She'll  look  on  you  as  one  very  soon,  I 
believe." 

"  And  a  brother  !  I  have  always  thought  it  would  be 
heavenly  to  have  a  brother." 

"  You'll  hardly  expect  Jos  to  look  on  matters  in  that 
light,"  said  her  father,  laughing  still  more  loudly,  and 
striking  his  big  knee  with  his  hand.  "A  brother! 
What  next  ?  " 

"  Won't  he  be  kind,  then  ?  Does  he  dislike  girls  ?  " 
said  Annabel,  wonderingly.  Then,  in  a  thoughtful 
voice,  she  added,  "  Jos  !  Jos  !  What  an  ugly  name  ! 
It  is  like  Amelia's  brother  in  '  Vanity  Fair ' — Jos 
Sedley.  I  hope  he  won't  be  fat  and  stupid,  like  Jos 
Sedley." 

"  No,  he  isn't  fat,  and  he  isn't  stupid,"  said  Mr. 
Daunay,  in  a  more  serious  tone.  "  He's  very  popular 
as  a  rule  with  ladies.  I  liked  him  myself  from  the 
moment  I  first  saw  him  ;  and,  to  tell  you  the  plain  truth, 
Annabel,  I  hesitated  for  some  time  about  the  disposi- 
tion of  my  money  and  the  estate  here  before  I  could  come 
to  any  proper  conclusion.  When  you  were  born  I  was 
disappointed  because  you  were  not  a  boy,  and  I  thought 
at  times  of  marrying  for  the  sake  of  having  one  :  per- 
haps I  should  have  done  so,  even  at  my  time  of  life,  if 
I  had  not  come  across  Alfred  Daunay's  children.  You 
see,  I  don't  want  the  Daunays  to  die  out." 

"  Of  course  not,"  said  Annabel,  with  her  eyes  on  the 
floor. 

"  I  might  make  Jos  my  heir,"  her  father  continued, 
"  but  in  that  case  I  should  have  to  cut  you  out  altogether, 
and  of  course  I  don't  want  to  do  that  exactly.  So  I've 
made  a  better  plan.  You  had  better  marry  Jos 
Daunay,  and  the  whole  thing  will  settle  itself.  He's 


72  Daunay's  Tower. 

quite  willing — at  least,  he  will  be.  "We'll  have  the 
wedding  before  Christmas,  and  then  you'll  be  ready 
for  all  the  Christmas  festivities  here  before  you  have 
your  first  season  in  town.  You  understand  now  what 
you  have  to  do,  and  of  course  I  expect  you  to  do  it." 


Annabel's  Decision.  73 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

ANNABEL'S  DECISION. 

"  FATHER  ! " 

The  word  escaped  indignantly  from  Annabel's  lips, 
then  she  thought  better  of  it  and  laughed. aloud. 

Of  course  he  was  not  in  earnest.  It  was  his  way  of 
being  humorous — a  heavy  way  ;  but  he  seemed  to  be  a 
heavy,  grim  sort  of  man,  and  no  doubt  he  "joked  wi' 
difficulty."  Still,  it  was  not  the  kind  of  joke  she 
liked.  She  hoped  that  he  had  not  talked  in  this  fash- 
ion to  the  unknown  cousins  whom  she  was  yet  to  see. 

Mr.  Daunay  looked  up  when  he  heard  her  laugh, 
with  a  faint  expression  of  surprise. 

"  Girls  laugh  at  anything,  I  suppose,"  he  said  rather 
gruffly.  "  I  thought  you  would  have  been  a  trifle 
surprised.  However,  you  seem  more  sensible  than  the 
generality  of  young  people,  and  if  you  have  sense  we 
shall  all  get  on  very  well." 

"  But  you  are  joking,  father  ;  are  you  not  ?" 

'•' Joking!  I  joking?  I  never  joke, "said  Daunay, 
breathing  rather  heavily  and  turning  purple  in  the  face. 
"  I  mean  what  I  say.  I  have  arranged  for  you  to 
marry  young  Jos  Daunay,  and  you  must  fall  in  with 
my  plan.  Why,  good  Heavens  !  don't  you  see  what  a 
capital  plan  it  is  ?  We  shall  unite  the  two  branches 
of  the  family,  and  your  children  will  have  Daunay's 
Tower,  as  our  forefathers  had  it  before  us.  Otherwise 


74  Daunay's  Tower. 

it  will  go  to  strangers,  and  the  estate  will  pass  out  of 
our  hands  altogether." 

"  If  Mr.  Jos  Daunay  had  it  all,  it  would  still  be  in 
the  Daunay  family/'  said  Annabel.  "  I  do  not  mind." 

"  You  talk  foolishly/'  growled  her  father.  "  I 
mind,  if  you  do  not.  I  want  the  Tower  to  go  to  my 
direct  descendants.  It  has  gone  in  the  direct  line 
ever  since  it  was  built,  centuries  ago.  It  is  the  old 
Tower  I  care  about ;  not  the  silly  new  building  of  last 
century.  The  old  Tower  belongs  to  us  as  a  family,  and 
I  don't  want  it  to  go  to  collaterals.  Now,  do  you 
understand  ?" 

"  But  surely,"  said  Annabel,  beginning  to  tremble, 
*'  but  surely  you  don't  understand.  You  can't  wish  to 
make  me  marry  a  man  whether  I  care  for  him  or  not, 
just  because  you  want  to  keep  Daunay's  Tower  in  your 
family." 

"  Can't  I?  And  why  not  ?  "  said  Mr.  Daunay,  fixing 
a  glassy  eye  upon  her,  with  evident  and  complete  non- 
apprehension  of  any  reason  to  the  contrary. 

Annabel  flushed  crimson.  She  had  never  before 
come  across  a  person  who  regarded  her  merely  as  a 
pawn  in  the  game  that  he  was  playing,  instead  of  a 
distinct  individuality.  It  seemed  almost  an  impossi- 
bility that  she  should  not  be  more  important  in  her 
father's  eyes.  She  made  an  effort  to  assert  herself. 

"  It  is  not  a  thing  I  could  be  expected  to  do,"  she 
said.  "  If  ever  I  am  married,  I  must  at  least  know 
and  respect  and  love  the  man  that  I  marry." 

"And  what  will  hinder  you  from  loving  Jos  Dau- 
nay ?" 

' '  Oh,  I  dare  say  he  is  very  nice  ;  but  I  have  not  seen 
him  ;  and — don't  yon  understand,  father,  that  it  does 


Annabel's  Decision.  75 

not  matter  whether  he  is  nice  or  not  ?  I  can't  be 
hawked  about  like  a  bundle  of  goods." 

There  was  a  little  spice  of  anger  in  the  last  few  words. 
Mr.  Daunay  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  minute  or 
two,  and  his  face  grew  hard.  He  was  a  hard  man  by 
nature  and  by  inheritance  ;  for,  although  he  came  of  a 
long  line  of  ancestors,  he  had  not  the  instincts  of 
gentle  blood.  The  Daunays  had  always  been  a  merci- 
less, grasping,  and  somewhat  coarse-fibered  race  of  men, 
living  narrow  lives  and  bent  chiefly  on  amassing  money 
and  adding  field  to  field  ;  in  John  Daunay  it  sometimes 
seemed  as  though  all  the  worst  characteristics  of  the 
family  concentrated  themselves.  Annabel  was  startled 
to  see  the  harsh  lines  into  which  his  face  could  set — 
startled,  but  not  alarmed  ;  for,  after  all,  she  was  of 
his  own  blood,  and  possessed  what  her  father  would  have 
called  "  plenty  of  grit."  She  waited  quietly,  there- 
fore, until  he  chose  to  express  his  views. 

"  You  can  and  you  can't !  You  will  and  you  won't ! " 
he  said  dryly  and  deliberately,  after  an  appallingly  long 
pause.  "  Is  that  the  way  you're  going  to  talk  to  me  ? 
Who  do  you  take  yourself  for  ?  You're  a  mere  no- 
body, a  penniless,  helpless  lass,  who  should  take  what 
she  can  get  and  be  thankful  for  it.  Do  you  know 
that  ?  What  business  have  you  with  a  will  of  your 
own  ?  You'll  do  your  father's  bidding  and  marry  the 
man  he  chooses,  or  else  I'll  never  own  you  as  a  child  of 
mine.  Not  one  penny  of  mine  shall  you  ever  see  un- 
less you  obey  my  orders." 

"  I  am  quite  ready  to  obey  you  in  everything — in 
everything  right,  that  is,"  said  Annabel;  "but  of 
course,  father,  I  can't  possibly  promise  to  marry  a  man 
whom  I  have  never  seen." 


76  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  You'll  do  what  I  tell  you,"  said  Daunay,  raising 
his  voice. 

Annabel  was  silent. 

"Do  you  hear  me  ?  I'll  have  no  disobedient,  rebel- 
lious girl  in  my  house  !  It's  no  use  your  thinking  of 
coming  to  London  if  you  can't  make  up  your  mind  to 
carry  out  my  plans.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean/'  said  Annabel,  with  a  flash  in  her 
clear  eyes  .which  made  them  look  like  burnished  steel, 
"  that  your  offer  of  a  home  is  conditional  on  my  marry- 
ing this  man — this  Mr.  Jos  Daunay  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  course  it  is,"  he  answered  roughly.  "  Con- 
ditional ?  I  should  think  so.  Do  you  suppose  I'm 
going  to  supply  you  with  clothes  and  jewels  and  horses 
and  carriages  for  nothing  ?  You're  bound  to  fulfil  my 
purposes  or  I  shall  do  no  more  for  you  than  I'm  obliged. 
A  paltry  pittance  of  a  hundred  a  year — I  may  leave 
you  that,  but  not  a  penny  more,  I  tell  you  ;  not  a  half 
penny  more.  What  do  you  think  I  came  here  for  ? 
Didn't  I  mean  to  make  use  of  yon  ?  Why  the  devil 
should  I  have  traveled  all  this  way  and  promised  you 
all  you  wanted  if  I  was  going  to  get  nothing  out  of 
it?" 

Annabel  had  turned  very  pale. 

"  If  that  is  what  you  mean,  I  think  you  had  better 
let  me  stay  here,"  she  said  quickly.  "  I  am  quite 
happy  with  Aunt  Jane  ;  I  do  not  even  want  the  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year  you  speak  of.  I  can  work  for  my- 
self." 

"  Can  you,  indeed,  hoity-toity  ?  So  that  is  the  kind 
of  air  you  put  on/'  said  Mr.  Daunay,  rising  from  his 
seat  and  fussing  about  the  room.  "  This  isn't  what  I 
expected,  I  can  tell  you,  and  I  won't  have  any  more  of 


Annabel's  Decision.  77 

it.  You'll  give  me  your  word  that  you'll  do  as  you're 
told,  before  you  come  to  London,  and  that's  the  long 
and  short  of  it." 

"  I  will  do  as  I  am  told  in  all  reasonable  things,  but  I 
will  not  promise  to  marry  Mr.  Jos  Daunay,"  said  An- 
nabel. 

"  You  won't  ?  " 

He  strode  up  to  her  almost  as  though  he  wanted  to 
strike  her  to  the  ground.  But  Annabel  was  not  daunt- 
ed in  the  least. 

"  No  ;  indeed  I  will  not,"  she  said. 

"  Then  stay  where  you  are,  and  where  your  mother 
was  before  you!"  he  shouted  furiously.  "Live  and 
die  in  the  gutter,  and  don't  ask  me  to  save  you  from 
starvation  ! " 

"  I  would  sooner  die,"  said  the  girl,  passionately. 

It  was  her  first  experience  of  unkindness,  of  disillu- 
sion, and  it  came  as  a  shock  to  her.  Jane  Arnold,  en- 
tering at  that  moment,  was  startled  at  her  white  face 
and  blazing  eyes,  as  well  as  at  John  Daunay's  violent 
gestures  and  loud,  angry  tones. 

"  So  that  is  what  you  have  made  of  her  ! "  he  said, 
pointing  to  his  daughter  as  Jane  came  into  the  room  ; 
"  an  undutif ul,  disobedient  hussy,  who  absolutely  re- 
fuses to  do  the  one  thing  that  I  have  required  of  her  I 
She  shall  do  it,  I  say,  or  suffer  for  it.  What  were  you 
thinking  of,  Jane  Arnold,  not  to  break  her  in  well 
when  she  was  a  child,  so  that  she  should  know  how  to 
obey  her  father  in  later  years  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  Oh,  John,  don't  be  angry  with  her. 
She  has  always  been  a  very  good  girl  to  me  ! " 

"  She  has  had  her  own  way  in  everything,  I  suppose. 
She's  a  damned  ungrateful  little  minx,  Jane,  and  I'll 


78  Daunay's  Tower. 

have  nothing  more  to  do  with  her  unless  she  begs  my 
pardon  and  says  she'll  do  what  she  is  told." 

"  Annabel,  Annabel ! " 

"This  will  never  do,"  said  Annabel,  briskly.  She 
came  forward  and  placed  her  aunt  in  an  armchair. 
Miss  Arnold's  lips  were  quivering,  her  face  was  pale, 
and  her  eyes  were  filling  with  tears.  The  signs  of 
agitation  were  enough  to  put  the  girl  upon  her  guard. 
"  Father,"  she  said,  "  you  forget  that  Aunt  Jane  is 
not  very  strong.  Perhaps  you  did  not  know  it.  She 
can't  bear  to  be  excited  or  upset.  You  and  I  must 
settle  this  business  without  reference  to  her." 

Mr.  Daunay  paused,  and  looked  at  her  with  something 
not  unlike  admiration  breaking  through  his  anger.  It 
was  strange  to  him  to  see  her  so  cool,  so  businesslike, 
so  entirely  mistress  of  herself.  If  she  would  but  do 
what  he  wanted,  how  splendidly  she  would  organize  a 
household  and  administer  a  fortune !  But  she  must 
be  obedient  to  him  ;  he  could  have  nothing  to  do  with 
a  rebel  under  his  own  roof.  Surely,  if  he  were  firm, 
she  would  ultimately  yield  ;  it  was  a  case  where  firmness 
was  required. 

"  We  can  only  settle  it  in  one  way,"  he  said  gruffly, 
but  with  more  self-control  than  she  had  anticipated. 
"Make  up  your  mind  that  you  owe  me  obedience,  at 
least,  and  I'll  make  your  life  easy  enough  for  you 
afterwards." 

"  I  will  not  marry  a  man  simply  because  you  tell  me 
to,"  said  Annabel,  with  as  keen  an  appreciation  of  the 
situation  as  he  himself  could  show. 

"  Then  you  may  go  to  the  devil !  "  he  said  ;  and  flung 
out  of  the  house  at  once,  unmindful  of  Jane  Arnold's 
entreaties  that  he  would  at  least  stay  to  tea,  or  of  a 


Annabel's  Decision.  79 

certain  white  look  in  Annabel's  face  which  reminded 
him  all  too  painfully  of  the  last  hours  of  Betha's  life. 

He  tramped  down  the  garden  path,  looking  neither 
to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  and  took  the  long  white 
road  that  led  to  the  village  of  High  Rigg. 

Then  Jane,  still  trembling,  broke  into  a  cry  of  pain. 
"  Oh,  Annabel,  child,  what  have  you  done  ?  " 

"It  seems  as  though  I  had  quarreled  with  my 
father  at  our  first  interview,  doesn't  it  ? "  said  the 
girl ;  and,  to  her  aunt's  surprise,  she  laughed  as  she 
said  the  words,  but  it  was  a  strained  and  mirthless 
little  laugh. 

"Oh,  Annabel,  don't,  my  dear  !  Run  after  him  and 
tell  him  you  are  sorry.  It  would  have  been  hard  to  me 
if  he  had  taken  yon  away  from  us  all,  but  that  would 
have  been  better  than  division  and  strife  between  you 
both." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Annabel.  "If  I 
had  gone  with  him,^  I  think  the  division  would  have 
been  wider,  the  strife  sorer.  I  should  never  have 
pleased  him  long.  Oh,  auntie,  if  only  I  could  have 
loved  him  ! — if  only  he  would  have  been  kind  ! " 

And  the  strain  of  unnatural  self-restraint  giving  way, 
she  sank  down  beside  Miss  Arnold's  chair  and  burst 
into  tears,  while  the  elder  woman,  though  still  un- 
nerved and  tremulous,  caressed  her  fondly,  and  forgot 
her  own  agitation  in  trying  to  calm  that  of  Annabel. 

But  it  was  not  for  long  that  Annabel  would  give 
way.  She  wept  so  seldom  that  she  was  rather  ashamed 
of  tears.  The  sobs  soon  ceased,  and  were  succeeded 
by  a  little  pause  of  silence,  and  then  she  lifted  her 
head  and  kissed  her  aunt's  cheek  lovingly. 

"  How  silly  I  am  !  "  she  exclaimed,  although  there 


8o  Datmay's  Tower. 

was  still  a  suspicion  of  huskiness  in  her  voice,  and  her 
eyelashes  were  wet.  "I  don't  often  cry,  do  I,  Aunt 
Jane  ?  I  don't  quite  know  why  I  have  been  crying 
now." 

"  It  was  natural,  dear.  You've  not  often  heard 
angry  words,  'have  you  ? — and  your  own  father,  too  ! 
and  the  disappointment." 

"  You  don't  suppose  that  I  mind  about  the  pleasures 
and  amusements  he  began  promising  me,  do  you,  auntie? 
I  don't  suppose  that  one  of  them  would  have  made  up 
to  me  for  the  dear  old  hills,  fo*  my  own  old  home,  and 
for  you  /  I  shall  be  quite  content  to  live  and  die  among 
theriggs  and  fells." 

"  But  that  would  not  be  right  for  you,  dearie,"  said 
Jane  Arnold,  anxiously.  "  After  all,  you  are  John  Dau- 
nay's  daughter — his  only  child — and  you  ought  to  live  in 
the  style  that  becomes  you.  He  says  he  is  a  rich  man, 
doesn't  he  ?  " 

"  He  says  he  has  thirty  thousand  a  year." 

"  To  think  of  it  !  It  seems  almost  wicked  to  have 
so  much,  doesn't  it,  when  there  are  so  many  starving 
folk  about  ?  Well,  if  he  is  so  rich,  you  ought  to  have 
your  share." 

"Perhaps  I  ought,"  said  Annabel.  "But,  you  see, 
he  offers  it  to  me  only  on  one  condition." 

"  That  you  marry  some  one  he  chooses  for  you,  my 
dear  ?  " 

"  That  he  has  already  chosen,"  said  the  girl,  im- 
petuously. "  Some  one  of  our  own  name — that  is  the 
attraction.  Thr>  son  of  a  cousin,  Alfred  Daunay,  he 
said.  Did  you  know  him,  auntie  ?  " 

"  Alfred  Daunay  ?  I  saw  him  once  or  twice,  many 
years  ago.  He  never  kept  up  much  acquaintance  with 


Annabel's  Decision.  81 

the  Daunays  at  the  Tower.  He  mixed  with  more 
learned  people,  and  was  not  overfond  of  Cumberland. 
But  he  is  not  living,  surely  ?  " 

"  Oh  no.  Father  has  traced  the  son  and  daughter, 
and  is  half  inclined  to  leave  the  estate  and  his  money 
to  the  son.  I  dare  say  he  will  do  it  now.  His  reason 
for  coming  here,  Aunt  Jane,  was  to  propose  that  I 
should  marry  this  young  man,  whom  I  have  never 
seen,  and  thus  provide  for  me  without  any  division  of 
the  property." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  it  is  not  altogether  unreasonable 
that  he  should  wish  it,"  said  Jane.  "If  he'd  talked 
to  me  first  I  should  have  told  him  he'd  best  not  say  a 
word  about  it,  but  just  take  you  to  London  and  let 
you  see  whether  you  couldn't  like  the  lad  of  your  own 
accord  ;  and  supposing  he  was  a  nice  lad  and  handsome, 
as  I  remember  Mr.  Alfred  years  ago,  why,  he  might 
have  had  his  way  without  any  quarrelling  at  all." 

"  I  did  not  think  you  would  take  his  side,  auntie." 

"Not  against  you,  my  lamb.  But  it  would  have 
been  a  good  thing  for  all  concerned." 

"He  couldn't  possibly  be  nice,"  said  Annabel, 
piteously,  "  or  he  would  not  have  made  the  bargain  to 
marry  me  without  consulting  my  wishes.  No  gentle- 
man would  have  agreed  to  such  a  thing  !" 

"  Perhaps  your  father  has  taken  the  agreement  for 
granted,"  said  her  aunt,  shrewdly.  "  I've  known 
more  unlikely  things  than  that  !  " 

"  He  spoke  very  positively.  Fancy  my  own  fath- 
er  "  And  there  Annabel  stopped  short,  her  lip 

quivering  again.  Certainly  she  had  been  put  into  a 
position  which  was  hard  to  bear.  Then  she  tried  to 
laugh.  "  Fancy  my  ever  liking  a  man  whose  name  was 
6 


82  Daunay's  Tower. 

Jos  !  Jos — Josiah,  I  suppose,  or  Joshua,  or  Joseph, 
possibly." 

Miss  Arnold  shook  her  head  at  this  frivolity.  "As 
if  a  name  mattered  !  "  she  said.  "  Don't  think  me 
unkind,  my  dear,  if  I  ask  you  whether  it  wouldn't  be 
well  for  me  to  go  down  to  the  Tower  this  afternoon 
and  tell  your  father  that  you  spoke  in  haste,  and  that 
you  would,  at  any  rate,  make  the  gentleman's  ac- 
quaintance, and  see  for  yourself  whether  you  could 
accept  him  or  not." 

"  Not  for  the  world  !  "  cried  Annabel,  springing  to 
her  feet.  ' '  I  do  not  want  to  see  the  young  man,  and 
I  am  quite  sure  that  nothing  on  earth  would  make  me 
marry  him.  Besides,  my  father  would  not  be  satisfied 
with  anything  less  than  a  promise." 

"  Perhaps  he  will  take  back  what  he  has  said,  and  beg 
you  to  come  away  with  him,  after  all." 

"I  don't  think  he  will,"  said  Annabel.  "You  will 
have  to  make  up  your  mind  to  be  saddled  with  me, 
auntie,  for  the  rest  of  your  natural  life  !  I  am  a  fix- 
ture. My  poor  father  !  He  evidently  thought  I  was 
a  fixture  in  another  sense — to  go  with  the  property  ! " 

And,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  laughed. 


Doctor  Lechmere's  Meditations.         83 


CHAPTER  IX. 
DR.  LECHMERE'S  MEDITATIONS. 

DR.  LECHMERE  came  in  from  his  rounds  in  anything 
but  a  good  temper.  His  patients  had  found  him  curter 
and  sharper  in  speech  and  manner  than  was  usual  with 
him  ;  for,  as  a  rule,  although  he  was  abrupt  in  ordinary 
life,  he  softened  his  tone  directly  he  entered  a  sick- 
room. But  on  this  particular  day  he  seemed  to  have 
little  sympathy  to  spare  for  any  one.  His  deeds  were 
kindly  enough,  but  his  words  were  distinctly  sharp. 

He  drove  at  his  ordinary  break-neck  pace  down  the 
white  road  past  the  Moorside  Farm,  but  did  not  halt 
on  the  way,  He  gave  one  long,  keen  glance  at  the 
house,  with  its  open  door  and  windows,  but  he  could 
see  no  one  :  neither  Miss  Arnold  nor  Annabel  was  visi- 
ble, and  there  was  perhaps  the  faintest  possible  touch 
of  disappointment  in  his  expression  as  he  turned  his 
attention  once  more  to  his  fleet  brown  horse.  He  said 
a  short,  sharp  word  to  himself,  too,  when  he  was  well 
past  the  house.  He  had  mended  his  manners  and  his 
language  of  late  years,  but  in  moments  of  excitement  a 
remnant  of  medical-student  profanity  was  still  natural 
to  him.  Annabel  Daunay  would  have  been  a  little 
shocked  sometimes  if  she  had  overheard  the  unstudied 
richness  of  his  vocabulary.  But  he  was  carefully  reti- 
cent whenever  she  was  in  the  way. 

He  drew  up  at  his  own  little  house  in  the  main  street 


84  Daunay's  Tower. 

of  the  village  dominated  by  Daunay's  Tower.  This 
village,  High  Eigg  as  it  was  called,  in  opposition  to 
Low  Rigg,  which  nestled  in  a  valley  some  two  miles 
away,  stood  on  either  side  of  the  swift  little  stream 
that  flowed  down  from  the  heights  of  the  fells  and  riggs 
which  make  the  barren  glory  of  Cumberland,  a  stream 
spanned  by  a  fine  old  stone  bridge  of  which  the  inhab- 
itants were  justly  proud.  The  houses  were  built  of 
grayish  white  stone,  with  slate  roofs ;  they  were  all 
somewhat  colorless  and  cold,  but  they  generally  pos- 
sessed a  little  garden  which  glowed  with  color  from 
April  to  November.  Dr.  Lechmere's  house  was  unlike 
others  in  that  respect :  it  had  no  flowers  in  its  enclosure 
of  garden  ground,  only  a  few  straggling  currant-bushes 
and  a  bed  of  parsley,  which  might  have  been  useful  for 
garnishing  the  dishes  prepared  for  him  by  his  cook  and 
housekeeper  if  that  good  lady  had  ever  taken  the  trou- 
ble to  garnish  anything  that  he  consumed.  But  Mrs. 
Beccles  had  too  much  respect  for  herself  to  take  any 
pains  for  a  man  who  cared  so  little  about  his  food  as 
the  parish  doctor.  He  never  knew  what  he  ate,  she 
always  declared.  It  was  quite  possible  that  Dr.  Lech- 
mere  knew,  yet  did  not  desire  to  make  remarks  upon 
the  subject.  He  had  dined  at  the  houses  of  local  mag- 
nates, where  it  had  been  remarked  that  he  was  some- 
thing of  a  connoisseur  in  cookery  and  in  wine.  But 
Mrs.  Beccles  would  have  sniffed  contemptuously  if  it 
had  been  suggested  to  her  that  her  master  possessed 
any  critical  knowledge  of  the  dishes  with  which  she 
provided  him. 

She  was  a  good  soul  in  her  own  way,  nevertheless, 
and  Dr.  Lcchmere  valtied  her  accordingly.  She  wa& 
scrupulously  honest,  and  she  kept  the  house  immacu- 


Doctor  Lechmere's  Meditations.        85 

lately  clean.  Behind  a  somewhat  stern  and  hard  de- 
meanor he  knew  that  her  heart  was  kind,  for  he  made 
occasional  demands  upon  her  kindness  which  sufficient- 
ly tested  the  fact  of  its  reality.  He  would  sometimes 
take  a  patient  into  the  spare  room  ol  his  own  house, 
for  instance,  and  expect  her  to  wait  upon  him;  he  would 
share  his  own  meals  with  a  tramp — a  thing  to  try  the 
metal  of  any  housekeeper, — or  send  her  to  a  poor 
woman's  house  with  milk  and  soup  at  any  hour  of  the 
day  or  night  when  he  thought  it  might  be  needed. 
Mrs.  Beccles  grumbled  sometimes,  but  she  always  did 
his  bidding.  "  You  never  think  of  me"  she  used  to 
say,  when  he  suggested  some  unusually  displeasing 
thing  to  her,  and  he  would  generally  burst  out  laugh- 
ing in  her  face,  "  like  a  schoolboy,"  as  she  said,  and 
ask  her  why  on  earth  he  should.  "  I  am  sure  you  don't 
need  me  to  look  after  you,  Mrs.  Beccles,"  he  would 
say,  with  the  twinkle  in  his  brilliant  hazel  eyes  which 
added  so  much  to  his  popularity. 

Not  that  Eugene  Lechmere  was  given  in  any  way  to 
extravagant  fits  of  generosity  and  self-denial.  He  often 
marred  the  effect  of  a  kind  act  by  some  bitter  little 
speech  which  rankled  in  the  memory  of  a  recipient 
when  the  gift  was  forgotten.  He  was  fierce  in  his 
hatreds,  persistent  in  his  dislikes,  and  there  was  always 
a  shadow  of  mistrust  in  the  aspect  of  the  village-mind 
towards  him,  because  he  never  spoke  of  his  past  nor  of 
his  people,  seemed  to  have  no  relations  and  no  friends, 
and  was,  to  their  thinking,  something  of  an  enigma, 
with  strange  tastes,  strange  pursuits,  and  a  way  of  ex- 
pressing himself  which  was  not  to  the  village  taste  at 
all. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  when  he  came  home,  and,  after 


86  Daunay's  Tower. 

issuing  a  curt  order  or  two  to  his  man,  he  walked  rap* 
idly  into  the  house.  "  Dinner,  if  you  please,  Mrs. 
Beccles,"  he  called  down  the  passage  imperiously. 
Then  he  entered  his  study,  his  private  den,  which  was 
also  his  dining  and  drawing-room,  for  the  only  other 
"  parlor  "  had  been  converted  into  a  surgery,  and  the 
back  part  of  the  house  consisted  of  the  kitchen  and 
scullery  occupied  by  Mrs.  Beccles.  There  were  three 
bedrooms  up-stairs,  and  that  was  all.  The  house  was  a 
mere  cottage,  and  extremely  bare  and  unpretentious- 
looking,  as  if  its  owner  had  no  time  for  the  graces  and 
amenities  of  life. 

But  the  study  showed  signs  of  refinement  and  culture 
which  accorded  little  with  the  rest  of  the  house.  The 
furniture  was  dark  and  heavy,  certainly,  but  it  was 
mostly  of  oak,  which  Lechmere  had  been  able  to  pick  up 
for  small  sums  in  outlying  cottages  or  at  country  sales, 
and  the  massive  table,  the  big  chairs,  the  bookcases 
and  the  settle — not  unlike  the  settle  in  Jane  Arnold's 
kitchen — were  not  only  useful  but  pleasant  to  the  eye. 
The  walls  were  color- washed  with  grayish  green, 
which  the  doctor  had  himself  laid  on,  and  the  floor, 
though  bare  except  for  one  old  rug  near  the  fireplace, 
had  been  beeswaxed  and  turpentined  and  polished  by 
Mrs.  Beccles  until  it  shone.  He  had  swept  away  all 
Mrs.  Beccles's  cherished  ornaments  from  mantelpiece 
and  table,  all  her  precious  colored  prints  from  the 
walls  ;  but  in  their  place  he  had  hung  an  engraving 
(framed  in  dark  greenwood)  of  Eossetti's  "Dream  of 
Dante,"  of  Burne-Jones's  "  Annunciation,"  of  Watts's 
"  Love  and  Death."  Lately,  too,  he  had  added  a 
photograh  of  Botticelli's  "Fortitude."  Clearly  he  was 
a  man  of  artistic  perception,  and  there  was  a  harmony 


Doctor  Lechmere's  Meditations.         87 

and  fitness  of  form  and  coloring  in  his  room  which 
showed  that  he  had  cultivated  a  naturally  refined  taste. 

He  had  a  fairly  good,  though  of  course  not  large, 
collection  of  books,  and  some  expensive  scientific  ap- 
paratus which  he  had  brought  with  him  when  he  first 
came  to  the  place — a  magnificent  microscope,  amongst 
other  things,  occupying  an  honorable  position  on  a 
table  by  itself.  If  the  room  were  the  room  of  a  man  of 
taste,  it  was  also  that  of  a  man  of  science,  and  it  con- 
tained a  large  assortment  of  the  newest  medical  works 
and  scientific  journals.  Evidently,  Eugene  Lechmere 
liked  to  keep  himself  abreast  of  the  times,  although  he 
had  buried  himself  in  Cumberland. 

A  large  black  cat  rose  from  the  rug  as  he  came  in, 
and  stretched  himself  conversationally.  Dr.  Lechmere 
must  have  been  unusually  absorbed  in  thought,  for  he 
simply  looked  down  at  him  as  if  he  did  not  see  him — a 
line  of  conduct  to  which  Timothy  was  so  unused  that 
he  immediately  tried  to  sharpen  his  claws  on  his  master's 
trousers. 

"Ah,  Tim,"  said  the  doctor,  absently;  "you  there, 
old  man  ?  Yes,  that'll  do ;  I'm  quite  aware  of  your 
existence." 

And  he  stooped  to  stroke  the  creature,  whereupon, 
by  a  sudden  spring,  Master  Tim  attained  the  dignity  of 
a  perch  on  his  master's  shoulder,  where  he  purred 
loudly  and  rubbed  his  black  head  against  Eugene's 
cheek. 

The  doctor  was  evidently  well  accustomed  to  this 
procedure,  for  he  moved  to  the  mantelpiece  without 
taking  any  further  notice  of  the  animal,  and  proceeded 
to  examine  some  notes  and  printed  papers  which  lay 
there.  Presently  a  shuffling  step  sounded  in  the  pas- 


88  Daunay's  Tower. 

sage,  and  Mrs.  Beccles,  in  close  cap,  white  apron,  little 
checked  shawl  and  mittens,  appeared  at  the  door. 

"  You  won't  need  your  dinner,  so  I  haven't  cooked 
any,"  she  said  calmly.  "  You're  to  eat  your  dinner  at 
Daunay's  again." 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  the  doctor  sharply. 

"  That  man  of  his  has  been  here  with  a  message. 
Mr.  Daunay  wants  you  to  come  up  at  half-past  seven." 

"  And  why  must  you  take  upon  yourself  to  decide 
whether  I  would  go  or  not  ?  "  said  Lechmere,  with  a 
sort  of  snap  in  his  voice. 

"  You're  not  a  fool,  sir,"  returned  the  old  woman, 
composedly  ;  "  and  it's  a  fool  yon  would  be  to  eat  cold 
mutton  at  home  when  you  can  get  good  meat  and  wine 
up  at  Daunay's  Tower  for  nothing." 

The  doctor  paused,  looking  into  the  distance  with  his 
bright  hazel  eyes. 

"I  dined  with  Mr.  Daunay  last  night ;  I've  no  fancy 
for  dining  with  him  to-night,"  he  said.  "  Bring  in 
the  cold  mutton." 

"I've  cut  it  up  and  peppered  it  for  to-morrow's 
hash,"  said  Mrs.  Beccles.  "  You'd  best  go  and  eat 
Mr.  Daunay's  dinner." 

"You  can  bring  me  some  bread  and  cheese,"  said 
Lechmere.  "  And  wait  another  time  before  you  make 
away  with  the  cold  meat." 

Mrs.  Beccles  stared  at  him  dumbly,  then  went  back 
to  her  kitchen,  and  was  heard  to  make  a  great  clatter 
amongst  her  knives  and  dishes.  Eugene  Lechmere 
threw  himself  into  his  chair,  dislodged  the  cat  from 
his  shoulder,  and  began  to  make  notes  of  his  day's  work. 
"I'll  be  at  no  man's  beck  and  call,"  he  murmured 
pnce  to  himself,  thinking  of  Mr.  Daunay's  invitation, 


Doctor  Lechmere's  Meditations.         89 

Presently  the  old  woman  came  back  and  laid  a  tray 
on  a  table  which  she  cleared  of  books  and  papers  for 
that  purpose. 

"  That's  what  there  is,"  she  said,  when  she  had 
finished  her  manipulations.  "You'd  have  done  better 
up  at  Daunay's.  That  man  of  his  said  his  master  was 
in  a  fine  taking  about  something  or  other." 

Dr.  Lechmere  took  his  seat  at  the  dinner-table,  with 
a  fine  show  of  carelessness,  glanced  at  the  highly- 
seasoned  chunks  of  cold  meat  which  his  housekeeper 
had  placed  before  him,  in  company  with  some  cold 
potatoes  and  butter,  cut  himself  a  slice  of  bread,  and 
poured  out  a  glass  of  water. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  Mr.  Daunay  is  ill  ?  "  he  asked, 
as  he  attacked  the  cold  mutton. 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  Only  in  a  raging  passion  with 
something  or  somebody.  Harvey  wondered  what  ailed 
him." 

"  As  long  as  Mr.  Daunay  is  not  ill,  I  cannot  say  that 
it  is  any  business  of  mine,"  said  Lechmere. 

The  snub  was  so  distinct  and  so  evidently  intentional 
that  Mrs.  Beccles  withdrew  in  absolute  silence.  As 
soon  as  she  was  gone,  the  doctor  pushed  away  his  plate, 
and  leaned  his  chin  on  his  hands.  Timothy,  pressing 
his  knee  with  one  decorous  paw,  was  surprised  to  find 
his  claims  unnoticed. 

"These  gossiping  servants" — so  ran  the  train  oL 
Eugene  Lechmere's  thoughts — "  what  do  they  know  ? 
How  can  they  tell  what  a  man's  mood  is  ?  Yet  if  we 
try  to  hide  it,  they  are  certain  to  put  their  finger  in- 
fallibly on  the  weak  place.  Daunay  is  in  a  raging  pas- 
sion with  somebody  ?  With  his  daughter,  or  Jane 
Arnold,  no  doubt.  Have  they  offended  him  ?  With 


9o  Daunay's  Tower. 

his  temperament,  an  offense  is  never  forgiven.  If 
Annabel  has  failed  to  satisfy  him,  that  will  be  the  end 
to  her  chance  of  a  fortune.  Am  I  sorry  ?  Am  I  glad  ? 
My  God,  I  don't  know.  All  I  know  is  that  I  shall  not 
be  able  to  listen  to  the  old  man  if  he  says  a  word  against 
Annabel.  I  am  glad  I  did  not  go  there  to  dinner, 
though  I  only  refused  because  I  would  not  be  sent  for 
like  a  lackey  !  But  to  hear  Annabel  grumbled  at,  run 
down,  or  abused  !  That  would  be  a  novel  experience 
indeed  !  I  should  like  to  thrash  any  man  that  said  a 
word  against  her  ! 

"  But  it  isn't  likely.  He  could  not  see  her  and  not 
be  charmed  Avith  her  !  She  is  growing  more  beautiful 
every  day  ;  she  will  make  a  sensation  in  the  world  be- 
fore long.  It's  impossible  that  he  should  have  been 
disappointed  in  Annabel.  I  must  remember  to  call 
her  Miss  Daunay,  by  the  way — she  is  not  a  child  any 
longer,  although  she  studies  her  Latin  grammar  to 
please  me,  and  submits  to  my  criticism  when  she  plays 
her  violin.  Sweet  Annabel  !  If  there  was  only  some 
place  where  the  world  would  never  change,  where 

" '  I  was  a  child,  and  she  was  a  child, 
In  a  kingdom  by  the  sea  ! ' 

Then  indeed  the  angels  might  look  down  on  us  from 
heaven  ;  '  envying  her  and  me/  no,  not  envying  her, 
poor  child,  for  she  would  have  a  sad  time  of  it  if  I  were 
all  she  had  to  rely  on,  I'm  afraid.  It  drives  me  mad 
to  think  of  it  ! 

"  "Well,  we  won't  think  of  it,  will  we,  Timothy  ? 
Yon  shall  eat  my  dinner,  old  man,  and  Mrs.  Beccles 
will  notice  my  healthy  appetite.  I'm  like  a  nervous 


Doctor  Lechmere's  Meditations.        91 

woman  to-night ;  I  feel  as  though  food  would  choke  me 
until  I  know  whether  we  are  to  lose  the  child  from  our 
quiet  valley — whether  her  fate  has  been  decided  for  her, 
and  whether  she  is  content  with  it  or  not.  Eugene 
Lechmere,  you  are  a  fool  !  As  if  it  mattered  to  you, 
one  way  or  another.  Yes,  Timothy,  your  master's  a 
fool,  a  damned  fool,  and  he  doesn't  much  care  who 
knows  it." 

He  rang  the  bell  for  Mrs.  Beccles  when  Timothy  had 
consumed  the  contents  of  his  plate,  and  allowed  her  to 
set  the  cheese  before  him.  He  took  up  a  knife  and 
looked  this  way  and  that,  with  the  air  of  a  gourmet, 
who  wishes  to  select  the  ripest  morsel  and  the  best,  but 
he  did  not  actually  cut  it,  and  Mrs.  Beccles  looked  at 
him  suspiciously. 

"  You  needn't  think  to  deceive  me,"  she  said  at  last, 
in  a  sepulchral  voice.  "  I  know  as  well  as  you  do  that 
Timothy  has  eaten  the  cold  mutton,  and  if  it  wasn't 
that  he  doesn't  like  cheese,  I've  no  doubt  but  what  he 
would  have  the  cheese  as  well.  If  you're  off  your  food, 
sir,  I  don't  know  why  you  should  make  believe  to  order 
dinner  at  all." 

"  Nor  I,  Mrs.  Beccles,"  said  Lechmere,  pushing  away 
the  dish.  "It  was  weak  of  me,  I  acknowledge.  I'm 
not  hungry  to-night — under  the  weather  a  bit,  perhaps 
— and  I  needn't  have  troubled  you.  But  I  don't  think 
I  knew  that  I  had  no  appetite  until  I  saw  the  food  be- 
fore me." 

"  It's  a  bad  lookout  when  a  man  can't  eat  his  victuals 
after  a  hard  day's  work.  I  doubt  but  what  you're  sick- 
ening for  an  illness,"  said  Mrs.  Beccles,  portentously. 
"  Would  you  like  a  little  gruel,  sir,  or  a  linseed  poultice 
anywhere  ?  " 


92  Daunay's  Tower. 

Dr.  Lechmere  exploded  in  laughter  of  a  rather  dreary 
kind. 

"  Thank  you  very  much.  When  Fm  ill  I'll  let  you 
know.  I  dare  say  I  shall  have  a  glass  of  wine  or  a  cup 
of  coffee  up  at  the  Tower.  I'm  off  there  now.  You 
can  go  to  bed  at  your  usual  time — there's  no  knowing 
how  long  I  shall  be.  You'd  better  give  Timothy  some 
milk ;  he  didn't  half  like  the  pepper  on  your  cold 
mutton." 

And,  with  another  laugh,  he  set  off  for  Daunay's 
Tower. 


A  Big  Bribe.  93 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  BIG  BRIBE. 

"  WHY  didn't  you  come  before  ?  "  were  the  words 
with  which  Mr.  Daunay  greeted  his  visitor. 

"  A  doctor  has  his  duties,"  said  Lechmere  lightly  ; 
"  and  your  summons  was  of  the  suddenest." 

Mr.  Daunay  had  met  him  in  the  hall — a  great  central 
hall,  of  baronial  proportions,  with  a  great  fireplace,  a 
balcony  and  broad  flight  of  stairs,  a  tesselated  floor,  and 
many  suits  of  gleaming  armor  on  the  wall.  Eugene 
Lechmere  always  said  that  it  had  a  theatriccal  look, 
but  John  Daunay  privately  thought  it  very  fine.  The 
master  of  the  Tower  had  come  out  of  the  dining-room, 
flourishing  a  serviette  in  his  hand,  his  brows  dark,  his 
face  flushed  with  meat  and  wine.  He  was  in  evening 
dress,  with  a  great  display  of  shirt  front  and  diamond 
studs  :  the  doctor  conjectured  that  some  element  of 
passionate  ostentation  was  at  work  in  his  mind.  He 
could  not  help  a  disparaging  glance  at  Lechmere's  morn- 
ing clothes,  and  said  rather  gruffly 

"  You're  busy,  I  suppose." 

"  If  you  mean  '  do  I  not  dress  for  dinner  ? '  "  said 
Lechmere,  following  his  host  negligently  into  the  dining- 
room,  "  I  may  say  at  once  that  I  do  not.  I  have  only 
one  dress-suit,  and  as  it  will  probably  have  to  last  me 
the  rest  of  my  life,  I  don't  wear  it  every  night.  I'm 
of  an  economical  disposition." 


94  Daunay's  Tower. 

He  seated  himself  sideways  at  the  dinner-table,  where 
wine  and  dessert  were  laid,  and  took  a  walnut  from  the 
nearest  dish,  cracking  it  with  his  fingers  and  extract- 
ing the  kernel  with  a  strength  and  deftness  which  ex- 
cited John  Daunay's  admiration. 

" By  Jove,"  he  said,  "you  do  that  well.  I  shouldn't 
have  thought  your  hand  was  strong  enough  to  crack 
that  shell." 

Lechmere  raised  his  eyebrows  and  stretched  out  his 
hand  as  if  to  examine  it.  A  long-fingered,  flexible  hand, 
the  true  surgeon's  hand,  where  strength  and  delicacy 
were  combined ;  a  hand  to  be  proud  of,  perhaps,  but 
which  its  owner  contemplated  with  a  rather  cynical 
look. 

"Strong  enough,"  he  said,  quietly,  "to  have  done 
some  mischief  in  its  day." 

Mr.  Daunay  had  taken  up  a  position  on  the  hearth- 
rug. Although  there  was  no  fire  in  the  grate,  he  stood 
with  his  hands  behind  him,  as  though  he  were  warming 
himself.  He  had  an  indescribably  truculent  air. 

"  So  I  suppose,"  he  replied.  "  But  I  did  not  know 
that  you  cared  to  mention  it." 

Dr.  Lechmere  looked  up  sharply.  A  dark  red  flush 
tinged  his  face ;  he  moved  in  his  chair. 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  glove  fights  we  used  to  have 
when  I  was  a  medical  student,"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause.  "  We  used  to  box  and  fence  a  good  bit ; 
and  once  or  twice  we  had  a  row  with  some  roughs,  and 
rather  enjoyed  knocking  them  about.  I  left  my  mark 
on  one  or  two  of  them,  I  remember." 

"  Ah  !  But  that  was  not  what  I  meant,"  said  Daunay, 
significantly.  "  I  was  thinking  of  something  rather 
different — when  your  hand  was  not  quite  so  steady " 


A  Big  Bribe.  95 

Lechmere  was  on  his  feet.  "  Thanks,"  he  said,  in 
his  abrupt  way ;  "  that's  enough,  Mr.  Dannay.  I'll 
wish  yon  good  evening." 

He  was  at  the  door  before  the  words  were  out  of  his 
mouth,  but  his  host  followed  him  hastily,  with  a  sud- 
den change  of  manner  and  of  tone. 

"  No,  no,  Lechmere,"  he  said.  "  No,  no  !  I  apolo- 
gize. Upon  my  word,  I  didn't  mean  to  say  it — I  didn't 
wish  to  hurt  you " 

"To  insult  me,  rather,"  said  Eugene  Lechmere,  in 
a  suppressed  voice.  His  face  was  ashen  gray. 

"  Well,  well,  I  didn't  mean  it.  And  I  didn't  know  it 
was  such  a  sore  subject,  either.  Thought  you  didn't 
care  a  hang  what  was  said,  you  know,  Lechmere.  Beg 
your  pardon,  I'm  sure." 

The  man  stood  irresolute.  There  was  a  fierce  red 
light  in  his  hazel  eyes  which  took  Mr.  Daunay  by  sur- 
prise, and  his  face  showed  tense  lines  that  made  him 
look  even  more  than  his  age  for  a  moment  or  two. 
Then  the  expression  changed.  The  hard  lines  relaxed, 
the  eyes  smiled  mockingly  once  more. 

"  You  were  quite  right,"  he  said  composedly.  "  I 
never  did  care  what  people  said  about  me.  It  sounded 
as  if  you  were  trying  to  give  offense,  that  was  all ; 
though  why  you  should  deliberately  try  to  pick  a 
quarrel  with  me,  God  knows." 

"I  didn't,  I  didn't.  I  was  out  of  temper,  that  was 
all.  Come  back  and  have  a  glass  of  wine.  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  about  that  girl  up  at  the  farm." 

Dr.  Lechmere  walked  back  to  the  table,  with  his 
head  bent  a  little,  as  though  he  were  reflecting. 

"  The  girl  at  the  farm.     Who's  that  ?  " 

"Why,  Annabel,  man.     You  know  as  well  as  I  do." 


96  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Daunay." 

The  accent  of  cool  reproof  was  unmistakable.  Dr. 
Lechmere  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  conceal  the  fact 
that  he  disapproved  of  John  Daunay's  mode  of  speech. 
But  he  was  scarcely  prepared  for  the  answer  that  he 
elicited. 

"  Let  her  call  herself  Daunay  if  she  likes.  It's  all 
she  will  get  from  me — the  little  hussy  !  An  ungrate- 
ful, impertinent  minx  !  I'll  have  nothing  more  to  do 
with  her." 

Lechmere  smiled,  a  pleased,  surprised  smile.  The 
warm  red  came  back  to  his  face  again;  hitherto  it  had 
remained  a  trifle  pale.  He  took  another  walnut  from 
the  dish. 

"  She  does  not  satisfy  you?"  he  asked  with  interest. 
"I  think  you  must  be  hard  to  please." 

"  Oh,  she's  a  pretty  piece  enough,"  said  Mr.  Daunay, 
with  brutal  carelessness.  "  But  what's  beauty,  after  all  ? 
You  can  see  a  pretty  girl  any  day.  I  want  a  girl  that 
will  do  as  she  is  told.  And  I've  been  turning  things 
over — what  she  said  to-day,  and  what  I  said,  and  so  on  ; 
and  as  she  thinks  so  highly  of  your  opinion,  I  think  I'll 
get  you  to  talk  to  her  and  see  if  you  can  bring  her 
round — I'll  give  her  that  one  more  chance.  And  if  she 
doesn't  take  it,  I'll  be  hanged  if  I  ever  see  her  again." 

He  had  taken  his  seat  at  the  table,  and  now  brought 
down  his  fist  upon  it  so  smartly  that  he  made  the 
glasses  ring.  Dr.  Lechmere  leaned  forward  a  little, 
and  fixed  his  penetrating  eyes  upon  the  elder  man's 
grim,  gray  face.  He  had  quite  recovered  his  own  self- 
possession,  and  there  was  a  keen  acuteness  in  the  atten- 
tion with  which  he  was  now  favoring  his  host. 

"  If  there  is  anything  for  Miss  Daunay's  benefit  in 


A  Big  Bribe.  97 

which  I  can  assist  you,"  he  said  blandly,  "I  am  quite 
at  yonr  service." 

"  Well,  I'm  willing  to  make  it  worth  your  while,  you 
know,"  said  Mr.  Daunay  bluntly.  "I  knocked  off 
that  two  hundred  a  year  some  time  ago,  because  I 
thought  you  were  so  confoundedly  interfering,  but  you 
seem  to  be  a  friend  of  hers,  in  a  sort  of  way,  and  if 
you  can  influence  her  in  the  right  direction,  I  don't 
mind  putting  it  on  again — or  even  three  hundred,  on 
condition  that  you  look  after  Jane  Arnold  a  little,  do 
you  see  ?  " 

"  I  see.  It  must  be  an  important  matter,  since  your 
bribe  is  such  a  big  one,"  said  Lechmere,  in  his  lightest 
tone.  He  poured  for  himself  a  glass  of  claret,  and 
sipped  it  leisurely.  But  his  eyes  were  very  keen  in- 
deed. "I  am,  as  you  say,  a  friend  of  hers,  'in  a  sort 
of  way,'  and  I  shall  be  pleased  to  do  what  I  can  for 
her." 

"  Oh,  yes,  she  thinks  a  lot  of  you,  I  can  tell  you. 
Stood  up  for  you  gallantly,"  said  Mr.  Daunay,  with  a 
chuckle.  "  I  offered  to  tell  her  that  little  story  of  the 
past,  you  know,  but  she  wouldn't  hear  it.  Said  you 
would  tell  her  yourself  if  you  wanted  her  to  know." 

To  all  appearance,  Eugene  Lech  mere's  face  did  not 
change.  He  had  schooled  himself  to  self-control,  and 
not  one  of  the  sensitive  lines  wavered  in  the  very  least. 
A  close  observer  would  have  seen  that  his  eyes  darkened, 
as  brilliant  hazel  eyes  sometimes  do — darkened  until 
they  had  a  curiously  somber  and  dangerous  look.  And 
the  hand  that  rested  on  the  stem  of  the  wine-glass  trem- 
bled a  little.  But  that  was  all. 

"  Exactly,"  he  said.     "  I  could  tell  her, — myself,  if  I 
wanted  her  to  know." 
7 


98  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  She  has  a  great  idea  of  you,  and  therefore  I  was 
thiuking  that  your  opinion  might  have  weight.  She 
put  me  into  such  a  tantrum,  the  little  vixen,  that  I 
don't  know  what  I  said,  but  she  was  all  up  in  arms,  as 
you  can  imagine  !  I  know  I  made  it  plain  that  if  she 
wanted  to  be  my  heiress  she  must  do  what  I  told  her." 

(i  Quite  a  fair  bargain.  And  you  wanted  her  to  do 
something  she  didn't  like?" 

"  That's  it;  that's  it.  As  if  every  chit  of  a  girl 
didn't  want  to  get  married  ! " 

Lechmere  made  an  inarticulate  sound;  the  stem  of 
the  wineglass  snapped  and  the  red  wine  stained  the 
damask  tablecloth. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Daunay;  clumsy  of  me, 
was  it  not  ?  Thanks,  yes,  another  glass — you  were 
saying " 

"  Annabel,"  said  John  Daunay,  impatiently.  "  Don't 
worry  about  that  glass  ;  I  want  you  to  listen  to  me  for 
a  moment  if  yon  can.  I've  found  a  husband  for  her — 
a  nice,  brisk  young  fellow,  who  is  next  heir,  you  know 
— my  cousin's  son.  Now  I  always  wanted  to  see  one 
of  my  own  name  at  the  Tower.  I'm  sure  that's  natural 
enough,  and  I  expect  Annabel  to  help  me.  What's 
the  good  of  a  girl  if  she  can't  marry  for  the  sake  of 
her  family?  I  want  her  to  marry  Jos  Daunay  ;  and  the 
little  fool  says  she'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind." 

Dr.  Lechmere  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two.  "  She 
was  probably  taken  by  surprise,"  he  said.  "  You  should 
have  led  up  to  it  gently,  or  let  her  see  the  man  for  her- 
self before  making  the  proposition.  Is  he — is  he — 
likely  to  suit  her?  Is  he  worthy  of  her?  " 

"Worthy?"  said  John  Daunay,  with  great  scorn. 
"  He's  worth  a  dozen  of  her.  A  fine,  handsome  young 


A  Big  Bribe.  99 

fellow,  two  or  three  and  twenty,  whom  she  ought  to  be 
proud  to  get  for  a  husband  ! " 

Eugene  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  with  a  cynical  smile 
on  his  face. 

"  Oh,  come,  Mr.  Daunay,"  he  said  deliberately, 
you  underrate  your  daughter's  attractions.  Miss  Dau- 
n;iy  is  beautiful  and  clever  ;  she  might  have  half  Lon- 
don at  her  feet  by-and-by  ;  and  it  is  not  likely  that  she 
can  all  at  once  approve  of  the  idea  of  being  handed 
over  to  the  first  man  who  offers  to  marry  her — espe- 
cially a  young  man  who  seems  to  be  a  mere  fortune- 
hunter." 

"  No  such  thing  ;  no  such  thing  !  He's  as  honest 
as  the  day." 

"But  why  has  he  consented  to  become  her  suitor  ? 
He  knows  her  only  by  reputation,  I  suppose." 

"  Well,  he  has  the  sense  to  see  what  an  excellent 
plan  it  would  be,"  said  Mr.  Daunay  ;  and  from  the  way 
in  which  he  lowered  his  eyes,  Lechmere  divined  that 
the  young  man's  consent  had,  perhaps,  been  taken  for 
granted  rather  than  actually  given.  "  But  the  girl 
won't  hear  of  it.  Flew  into  a  fury  and  said  she  would 
rather  die,  and  so  on.  Now  if  you  went  and  persuaded 
her " 

"  I  don't  think  I  can  persuade  her,"  said  Lechmere. 
"  I  should  rather  like  to  talk  it  over  with  her  ;  I'll  do 
that,  if  you  like." 

"  But  from  my  point  of  view  ?  You  won't  strengthen 
her  in  these  ridiculous  views  of  hers  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  possibly  promise  until  I  find  out  what 
her  views  are." 

Mr.  Daunay  looked  at  him  with  suspicious  eyes. 
••  Xow,  what  does  that  mean  ?  "  he  said  slowly.  "  Are 


ioo  Daunay's  Tower. 

you  sweet  on  her  yourself,  that  you  hesitate  to  per- 
suade her  for  her  own  good  ?" 

Eugene  Lechmere  went  white  to  the  lips.  "  That's 
the  second  time  you  have  insulted  me  this  evening, 
Mr.  Daunay,"  he  said  hotly. 

"  Insulted  you  ?  Nothing  of  the  sort.  If  she  is  so 
beautiful  and  so  clever,  as  you  say,  why  shouldn't  you 
have  fallen  in  love  with  her?  I  only  want  to  know." 

"  Well,  if  I  had  been  such  a  fool,"  said  Lechmere, 
very  slowly,  and  with  his  eyes  on  the  tablecloth,  "  do 
you  think  I  should  have  the  audacity — the — the — the 
damned  cheek,  I  should  call  it — to  tell  her  so  ?  " 

"You  never  seemed  to  me  to  be  wanting  in  cheek, 
my  good  fellow.  You  didn't  know  I  was  going  to  do 
anything  for  her  ;  she  seemed  a  mere  country  girl  to 
you  ;  why  shouldn't  you  have  made  love  to  her  ?  " 

"I  never  did  ;  that's  sufficient  answer,  surely." 

"  Perhaps  you  don't  like  to  confess  it ;  perhaps  you 
went  a  little  too  far  and  don't  know  how  to  face  the 
consequences,  eh  ?  I  see  from  your  face  that  there's 
something  between  you,  Lechmere." 

"  You  are  wrong,  then.  There  is  nothing  between 
us.  Do  you  think  I  would  say  a  word  to  her  about 
love — that  young,  fair  creature,  when  I  consider  what 
I  am,  and  what  my  life  has  been  ?  Though  you  do  not 
seem  to  know  it,  Mr.  Daunay,  I  hope  I  have  some  sense 
of  honor  left ! " 

"  Don't  excite  yourself.  All  I  say  is  this — if  there 
had  been  anything  between  you — if  she  were  in  love 
with  you,  and  refused  Jos  Daunay  for  love  of  you  ;  I 
won't  say  but  what  I  would  make  things  easy  for  yon 
both.  It's  Jos  Daunay  that  I  want  for  my  heir,  and  I 
should  like  my  daughter  to  be  his  wife ;  but  if  she 


A  Big  Bribe.  101 

refuses  to  marry  him,  why  she  may  marry  the  biggest 
scoundrel  iii  the  world  for  aught  I  care.  I  don't  mean 
you,  you  know.  I'd  have  no  objection  to  you." 

"  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,"  said  the  doctor,  rising 
to  his  feet  in  a  white  heat  of  rage,  "  and  I've  no  doubt 
you  are  capable  of  the  most  cold-blooded  cruelty  that 
ever  a  man  could  practise  towards  an  innocent  girl, 
whether  it  happened  to  be  disinheriting  her,  or  marry- 
ing her  to  a  scoundrel,  or  selling  her  to  a  man  who 
wanted  her  only  for  her  money.  But  as  for  me,  I'd 
shoot  myself  before  I  asked  her  to  marry  me — even  if 
I  loved  her  with  all  my  soul ! " 

"  H'm  !     And  if  she  asked  you  to  marry  her  ?  " 

"  Then,"  said  Lechmere,  facing  his  host  with  blazing 
eyes,  "then  I  should  tell  her  my  own  story." 

"  If  you  are  so  sure  that  there's  been  nothing  between 
you,"  said  Mr.  Daunay,  with  a  sneer,  "  why  don't  you 
persuade  her  to  marry  the  man  I've  chosen  for  her  ?  " 

"Because  she  ought  to  choose  for  herself.  I'll  say 
good  evening,  Mr.  Daunay.  I  think  it  would  be  just 
as  well  that  we  did  not  meet  again." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  so  hot-headed,  Lechmere. 
Think  it  over  quietly.  If  you  can  persuade  Annabel 
to  marry  Jos  Daunay,  it  will  be  for  your  own  advan- 
tage." " 

"  I'm  hanged  if  I  will,"  said  Eugene,  obstinately. 

"  Hadn't  you  better  marry  her  yourself  then  ?  " 

Dr.  Lechmere  considered,  on  reflection,  that  he  dis- 
graced himself  by  his  reply.  The  old,  bad  habit  of 
strong  language,  of  profane  language,  came  back  to 
him  at  times  of  unusual  excitement,  although  of  late 
years  he  had  learnt  to  curb  his  tongue.  And  yet  there 
was  an  element  of  fierce  and  even  tragic  seriousness  in 


IO2  Daunay's  Tower. 

the  phrase  that  fell  from  his  lips  as  he  turned  a  white 
face  towards  Mr.  Dannay  from  the  open  door,  and  said 
deliberately — 

"  I'll  be  damned  first." 

"  You're  an  obstinate  fool,"  said  John  Daunay, 
closing  the  door. 


The  Great  Renunciation.  103 


CHAPTER  XL 

THE  GREAT  RENUNCIATION". 

ANNABEL  was  in  the  garden  next  day  when  the 
doctor's  cart  came  up  the  road.  She  had  been  looking 
out  for  him  all  day,  and  she  did  not  mind  telling  him 
so,  with  the  girlish  frankness  that  set  the  greatest  barrier 
between  them.  Dr.  Lechmere  smiled  at  her  benignly 
as  he  held  her  hand  in  his  for  a  moment  and  listened  to 
her  welcoming  words.  He  looked  very  trim  and  spruce, 
very  professional  and  superior,  she  thought,  with  that 
air  of  calm  assurance  which  sometimes  awed  and  some- 
times irritated  her.  She  would  hardly  have  recognized 
him  in  the  haggard  man  who  had  spoken  with  such 
violence  to  her  father  the  night  before ;  in  fact,  she 
wonld  have  been  inexpressibly  shocked  if  she  had  heard 
a  rough  word  or  profane  expression  fall  from  his  lips, 
although  she  had  heard  it  hinted  that  he  had  a  reserve 
store  of  objurgatory  language  that  sometimes  made  the 
hair  of  respectable  listeners  stand  erect  on  their  heads. 
Jane  Arnold  always  comforted  her  by  saying  that  if  ever 
Dr.  Lechmere  had  been  betrayed  into  the  use  of  bad 
language,  she  was  sure  that  it  was  a  very  long  time  ago  ; 
and  that  when  men  were  young  and  hot-tempered,  they 
were  not  always  so  particular  as  they  should  be  about  the 
terms  they  employed.  Good  old  Jane  Arnold  !  She 
certainly  remembered  Eugene  Lechmere  in  his  wild  and 


io4  Daunay's  Tower. 

reckless  days,  but  she  believed  him  to  be  next  door  to 
perfection  now. 

All  these  things  rushed  tumnltuously  through  Lech- 
mere's  mind  as  he  stood,  trim  and  cool,  in  Annabel's 
garden,  holding  her  slim  fingers  between  his  own.  She, 
too,  as  she  laughed  into  his  face,  was  not  without  self- 
consciousness.  She  could  not  but  remember  the  wave 
of  passionate  anger,  the  hot  tears  of  pain  and  mortifica- 
tion that  had  come  like  a  storm  into  her  quiet  life.  Her 
eyes  could  never  again  be  so  serene  and  childlike  as  be- 
fore her  father's  visit.  And  Eugene  Lechmere  was  very 
quick  to  remark  the  change. 

"  Mr.  Daunay  came  to  see  you,  I  believe  ?  "  he  said, 
introducing  the  subject  as  if  it  were  of  quite  light  and 
trivial  interest. 

"  Oh  yes." 

She  withdrew  her  hand,  and  looked  grave  at  once. 
"  Have  you  seen  him  ?  Did  he  tell  you ' 

"  He  sent  for  me  last  night.  He  told  me  something 
of  what  had  passed  between  you.  You  seem  to  have 
had  a  little  disagreement  ?  "  he  said,  smiling  ironically. 

Who  could  have  believed  that  he  had  paced  his  room 
half  the  night  through,  and  had  lain  upon  his  bed  for 
the  rest  of  the  time  with  wide-open,  anguish-stricken 
eyes,  wrestling  with  his  own  heart,  lest  it  should  break 
the  iron  bonds  that  he  had  put  upon  it  for  twenty 
years  or  more  ?  Even  to  those  who  knew  him  best 
the  intensity  of  that  struggle  would  have  seemed 
unreal. 

"  A  little  disagreement  !  "  repeated  Annabel,  with 
some  hurt  feeling  in  her  voice.  "  Oh,  if  you  call  it  by 
that  name ! " 

"  What  name  shall  I  call  it  by  ?    I  hope  fk  is  not  a 


The  Great  Renunciation.  105 

complete  breach  between  you  and  your  father.  That 
would  be  a  pity." 

"  A  pity,  indeed  !  " 

"  Well,  why  should  you  repeat  my  words  so  often  ? 
They  are  words  of  wisdom,  of  course,  but  they  hardly 
deserve  that  honor." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  know  I  am  very  rude,"  said 
Annabel,  contritely.  She  wondered  why  his  eyebrows 
contracted  a  little  as  she  made  her  apology,  not  knowing 
that  it  filled  him  with  an  agonized  yearning  to  humble 
himself  before  her,  to  fall  at  her  feet  and  kiss  the  hem 
of  her  gown,  to  do  anything,  in  short,  that  would  have 
seemed  ridiculous  and  uncharacteristic  of  himself.  For 
John  Daunay's  eyes  had  read  the  truth  with  marvelous 
accuracy,  and  his  rough  words  had  revealed  to  Eugene 
Lechmere  something  which  he  had  never  realized  be- 
fore. He  could  never  look  at  Annabel  with  the  same 
eyes  again.  She  was  so  sweet,  so  innocent,  so  uncon- 
scious ;  and  he — a  man  disgraced  in  the  eyes  of  the  world 
— had  dared  to  love  her.  She  would  think  his  love  an 
insult,  perhaps,  if  she  knew  all. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  Are  you  vexed  with  me  ?  "  she 
said. 

"  No,  certainly  not.  But  have  you  been  very  wise, 
Annabel  ?" 

He  lingered  a  little  on  the  name.  He  must  begin  to 
call  her  Miss  Daunay  by  and  by.  It  was  all  very  well  to 
use  her  Christian  name  when  she  was  a  child,  but  he 
could  not  go  on  doing  so  forever.  She  noted  the  slightly 
unfamiliar  tone,  and  put  it  down  to  displeasure  ;  she 
began  to  excuse  herself  to  him  with  eagerness. 

"  Indeed  I  tried  to  do  what  was  right.  It  was  a  great 
shock  to  me,  you  know,  Dr.  Eugene.  You  had  never 


io6  Daunay's  Tower. 

told  me  that  he  was  my  father,  and  I  hardly  knew  how 
to  behave.  But  Aunt  Jane  can  tell  you.  I  called  him 
1  father,'  and  I  asked  him  to  kiss  me  ;  and  then  I  played 
and  sang  to  him,  and  tried  so  hard  to  please  him." 

The  tears  were  in  her  eyes. 

"  He  must  have  been  hard  to  please,  if  you  could  not 
please  him,"  said  Lechmere,  looking  out  to  the  shining 
valley  with  a  curious  wistfulness  in  his  eyes. 

"  How  nice  of  you  to  say  so  ! — and  you  are  not  at  all 
easily  pleased,"  said  Annabel,  with  coaxing  sweetness. 
"I  did  my  best,  and  I  promised  to  leave  Cumberland 
and  go  away  with  him,  and  be  a  good  daughter  ;  and 
all  went  quite  well  until — until " 

"  Until  you  found  that  he  wanted  something  from  you 
in  return  ?" 

"  That  is  not  putting  it  fairly,  is  it  ?  Think  of  what 
he  wanted.  He  asked  me  to  promise — he  told  you  what, 
did  he  not  ?  " 

"  To  make  a  very  desirable  alliance,  such  as  any  man 
might  wish  to  secure  for  his  daughter,"  said  Dr.  Lech- 
mere,  dryly.  He  was  resolved  to  do  his  duty,  and  let 
her  see  the  claims  of  worldly  wisdom  and  common 
sense. 

"  To  marry  a  man  whom  I  had  never  seen  !" 

"  But  you  might  have  seen  him,  and  considered  the 
matter." 

"  He  did  not  leave  it  sufficiently  open  for  that,"  said 
the  girl,  with  deepening  color.  "  He  insisted  that  I 
must  promise  to  do  it  whether  I  liked  the  man  or  not. 
My  wishes  were  not  to  be  consulted.  Do  you  think  it 
possible  that  I  could  place  myself  in  that  position  for  the 
sake  of  a  fortune,  Dr.  Lechmere  ?  " 

The  doctor  hesitated  a  little.     "  2fot  for  the  sake  of 


The  Great  Renunciation.  107 

a  fortune  ;  but  for  the  sake,  perhaps,  of  your  father's 
wishes,  and  for  the  object  that  he  had  at  heart " 

Annabel  was  wounded,  and  showed  it.  "  I  am  of  such 
slight  consideration,  then,  that  no  one  need  mind 
whether  I  am  happy  or  miserable  ?  I  know  that  sounds 
selfish,  but  surely  a  girl — a  woman — has  some  rights  of 
her  own,  has  she  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  Annabel  ;  but  you  know  that  you  were 
asked  to  do  what  many  a  girl  does  without  hesitation. 
As  I  said  before,  you  do  not  know  the  world.  It  is  not 
considered,  in  the  world,  a  very  awful  or  extraordinary 
thing  that  a  girl  should  marry  a  man  because  he  is 
wealthy.  In  fact,  she  is  generally  told  that  it  is  her  duty 
to  accept  him." 

"  And  do  you  think  it  her  duty  ?  "  said  Annabel,  in 
a  voice  of  scorn. 

"  You  had  better  not  ask  me ;  I  am  not  a  good  in- 
structor of  youth." 

"  I  have  scarcely  had  any  other,"  said  Annabel,  turn- 
ing upon  him  suddenly.  "  Nearly  all  my  ideas  have 
come  from  yon.  I  was  thinking  so  last  night,  when  my 
father  seemed  angry  and  said  hard  things — I  was  think- 
ing of  you,  how  much  I  owed  you  ;  that  you  had  always 
told  me  what  books  to  read,  what  I  ought  to  admire  and 
love.  You  have  corrected  my  faults  when  nobody  else 
would  have  done  so,  and  helped  me  and  taught  me  in 
so  many  ways '? 

"  Stop  ! "  he  said  hoarsely.  "  Stop,  Annabel !  You 
don't  know  how  you  are  hurting  me.  For  God's  sake, 
stop  !" 

She  looked  at  him  with  wide  eyes.  Of  the  pain  in 
his  face  there  could  be  no  doubt.  The  perspiration 
stood  in  beads  upon  his  brow.  His  face  was  pale  and 


io8  Daunay's  Tower. 

drawn,  his  hand  was  clenched  ;  she  saw  it  tremble  as 
he  turned  away.  For  a  moment  she  was  mute.  What 
had  she  done  ? 

"But,  Dr.  Eugene,"  she  said,  with  piteous  entreaty 
in  her  voice,  "  it  is  all  true.  Why  should  it  pain  you 
to  be  told  of  it  ?  " 

He  did  not  turn  his  face  to  her,  but  spoke  shortly 
and  abruptly  over  his  shoulder  as  he  stood. 

"  Because  I  am  not  the  man  you  take  me  for,  Anna- 
bel. I  am  not  a  good  man.  The  world  would  laugh 
at  you  if  you  said  you  respected  my  opinion.  There- 
fore it  hurts  me  when  you  say  I  have  influenced  you. 
I  can  only  hope  I  have  done  you  no  harm.  I  don't 
think  1  have." 

"  You  have  done  me  good  ;  never  any  harm — never  ! 
and  I  respect  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart." 

"  Don't  say  so,  child.  You  don't  know  me.  Do  you 
know  I  have  been  in  prison  ?  " 

She  shrank  a  very  little.  He  had  his  back  to  her  but 
he  felt  that  she  shrank — only  for  a  moment,  but  it 
seemed  to  him  that,  in  that  one  moment  he  experienced 
the  torments  of  hell. 

"  Many  a  man  has  been  in  prison  and  been  innocent," 
she  said. 

"I  was  not  innocent ;  I  was  guilty." 

"  Don't  tell  me  any  more,"  she  pleaded,  "  unless  you 
wish.  I  am  quite  sure,  whatever  the  world  may  say, 
that  there  was  some  mistake,  or  that  there  were  things  to 
be  said  in  your  favor — the  things  that  only  God  knows." 

"  Do  you  want  to  fill  the  cup  of  my  humiliation  to 
the  brim  ?  "  he  said.  "  I  tell  you  I  was  guilty.  There 
was  no  excuse — except  that  I  was  drunk." 

Then  indeed  she  shrank.     The  harsh  crudity  of  the 


The  Great  Renunciation.  109 

statement  made  it  bite  into  her  mind,  as  a  searing-iron 
would  have  burnt  into  her  flesh.  With  a  sort  of  super- 
natural acuteness  he  felt  what  she  felt,  and  suffered  as 
keenly  as  it  was  possible  for  him  to  suffer.  He  knew  that 
she  had  put  him  upon  a  pedestal;  well,  he  had  hurled  him- 
self from  it  of  his  own  accord,  to  prevent  her  from 
making  him  into  some  sort  of  spurious  idol  for  a  time. 
Would  he  not  afterwards  repent  what  he  had  done  ? 

But  there  was  a  fineness  of  feeling  in  Annabel  Daunay 
which  made  her  say  and  do  the  only  thing  that  could 
have  comforted  him  in  the  very  least.  He  was  a  proud 
man,  a  self-assertive  man,  and  she  knew  the  terrible 
humiliation  that  it  must  be  to  him  thus  to  abase  him- 
self in  her  sight.  By  the  way  he  kept  his  face  turned 
from  her,  she  understood  the  shame — the  almost  un- 
bearable humiliation — that  he  felt. 

She  touched  him  softly  upon  the  arm.  "So,  since 
then,"  she  said,  "you  have  given  yourself  to  the 
service  of  the  sick  and  needy  ;  you  have  been  their 
helper,  working  night  and  day,  I  have  often  heard, 
with  an  enthusiasm,  a  self-abnegation  which  can 
scarcely  be  equaled.  Oh,  I  have  heard  people  talk 
about  you,  and  now  I  know  what  it  has  all  meant.  I 
don't  know  what  you  did  that  was  wrong — I  don't  want 
to  know — but  I  am  quite  sure  that  it  has  been  atoned 
for  during  all  these  years.  Just  to  think  of  it  !  All 
my  life  you  have  lived  here  toiling  among  the  poor, 
while  you  might  have  won  distinction  and  honor  in  the 
great  world." 

"  No,"  he  said,  still  keeping  his  face  averted  from 
her  ;  "  I  lost  all  chance  of  distinction,  though  I  gained 
plenty  of  notoriety,  when  I  was  tried  for  murder." 

"You  were  acquitted." 


no  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Of  murder,  yes.  It  was  brought  in  manslaughter. 
I  served  my  two  years  for  it.  But  I  vowed  that  I 
would  not  give  up  my  profession,  for  all  that." 

"I  think  you  did  very  nobly,"  she  said.  "  But  who 
am  I  to  pass  opinion  upon  what  you  did  ?  I  am  an 
ignorant  child.  Dear  Dr.  Eugene,  anything  that  is 
good  in  me  is  owing  to  you.  How  can  I  think  ill  of 

you?" 

"  God  bless  you,  Annabel  !  "  he  said  brokenly  ;  and 
his  hand  went  out  to  seek  hers,  and  held  it  in  a  clasp 
which  she  never  forgot. 

If  she  had  had  any  love  for  him,  it  would  then  have 
come  to  full  fruition.  She  could  not,  even  out  of 
maidenly  modesty,  have  refrained  from  comforting  him 
with  it  then.  But,  as  he  well  knew — bitterly  knew,  in 
his  heart  of  hearts — the  love  was  not  there,  for  his  com- 
fort, his  relief,  his  deep  regret. 

"  Dear  Doctor  Eugene, "she  said,  "  do  look  at  me  again. 
I  want  to  tell  you  how  much  we  love  and  honor  you  ; 
and  I  want  you  to  say,  from  your  real  true  inner  self, 
whether  you  don't  think  that  I  was  quite  right  to  re- 
fuse to  sell  myself  for  a  fortune,  and  that  I  am  better 
leading  a  quiet,  peaceful,  country  life  than  dancing 
and  flirting  in  that  great  wicked  London  of  yours  ! " 

"  Annabel,  yon  can't  care  for  my  opinion  now/'  he 
said,  turning  round  at  last,  with  eyes  that  were  curi- 
ously soft,  and  a  lip  that  quivered  as  he  spoke. 

"  I  care  for  it  more  than  ever.  But  be  true  to  your 
convictions,  dear  Dr.  Eugene,"  she  said,  with  a  little 
wistful  laugh  which  moved  him  to  his  inmost  self. 

"  I'll  try  to  be,"  he  said  almost  passionately.  "  Oh, 
my  dear,  you  are  right — always  right.  Your  instincts 
are  always  for  what  is  good  and  true  ;  and  God  planted 


The  Great  Renunciation.  in 

them  within  you,  you  may  be  sure  of  that.  You  are 
quite  right.  You  have  no  business  to  promise  to  marry 
a  man  whom  you  have  never  seen,  and  your  father  has 
no  right  to  ask  you  to  make  such  a  sacrifice.  Better,  a 
thousand  times,  this  life  of  obscurity  that  you  are  lead- 
ing, than  wealth  and  high  position  at  such  a  price. 
The  man  that  is  to  be  your  husband,  Annabel,  must  be 
the  man  you  love." 

"  Thank  you,  dear  Dr.  Eugene.  I  am  quite  happy 
now,"  said  Annabel ;  and  she  gave  him  her  hand,  with 
a  look  of  trust  and  affection  which  rent  poor  Eugene 
Lechmere's  heart. 

He  would  not  leave  her  all  at  once,  for  fear  she 
should  be  surprised  and  grieved  by  his  abrupt  de- 
parture, but  at  last  he  managed  to  effect  his  escape. 
An  escape  indeed  it  was,  from  pain  if  not  from  danger, 
for  she  had  tortured  him  more  than  she  knew. 

There  had  been  a  moment  when  he  might  have  won 
her  heart.  He  knew  it,  and  he  had  deliberately  put 
the  chance  away  from  him — had  sacrificed  it  forever. 
He  could  not  have  borne  to  see  Annabel  shrink  from 
him  again. 


ii2  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  JOS." 

THE  scene  shifts.  From  the  wild  moorland  stretches, 
the  fells  and  straths  of  Cumberland,  we  fly  to  the  nar- 
row London  streets  and  squares,  where  the  sunshine 
falls  but  sparsely,  and  even  in  high  summer  the  skies 
are  gray  rather  than  purple  overhead. 

In  the  West  End  of  London  there  are  flats  innumer- 
able, for  all  sorts  and  condition  of  folk.  Not  far  from 
Hyde  Park  there  is  a  set  of  flats  built  originally  for 
people  of  small  means — perhaps,  even,  for  working 
people — but  rented  mostly  by  gentlefolk  who  want  to 
economize  in  the  matter  of  rent  and  service.  At  the 
very  top  of  one  of  these  buildings  is  the  cheapest  flat 
of  all,  one  which  is  scorned  by  those  who  object  to 
mounting  five  flights  of  stairs  in  order  to  reach  their 
home,  but  beloved  by  those  who  inhabit  it  on  account 
of  its  airiness,  its  quietness,  its  openness  to  sun  and 
stars.  And  on  the  plate  which  gives  the  names  of  the 
residents,  the  occupants  of  this  flat  were  labeled  "  Mr. 
and  Miss  Daunay." 

It  was  a  hot  July  evening  when  Miss  Daunay  won- 
dered a  little  what  was  keeping  her  younger  brother 
out  so  late.  She  had  expected  him  to  take  her  to  a 
theater,  and  she  had  seen  an  evening  meal  set  out  and 
prepared  for  his  benefit  and  her  own  at  six  o'clock ; 
and  now  it  was  eight,  and  he  came  not.  There  was  no 


"Jos."  113 

sacrifice  of  tickets  involved,  for  they  were  going  to  the 
pit — they  were  not  rich  people,  and  they  were  young 
enough  to  enjoy  a  crowd — but  Miss  Daunay  felt  a  cer- 
tain amount  of  disappointment  at  missing  the  last  per- 
formance of  a  play  in  which  she  had  taken  an  interest ; 
and  when  the  clock  struck  half-past  eight  she  began 
also  to  experience  a  certain  amount  of  anxiety.  Jocelyn 
was  not  given  to  missing  his  appointments,  even  with 
an  elder  sister,  whom  most  men  think  it  harmless  to 
neglect  ;  and  Edith  had  scarcely  ever  known  him  to 
break  his  word  over  any  engagement  with  her.  She  was 
beginning  to  show  her  anxiety  in  the  one  way  that  was 
natural  to  her — by  pacing  up  and  down  the  corridor  of 
the  flat,  with  the  noiseless  gliding  movement  that  char- 
acterized her  walk — when  she  heard  a  latch-key  put  in 
the  lock,  and  turning,  found  herself  face  to  face  with 
her  brother  Jocelyn. 

She  was  twenty-seven  years  of  age,  tall,  slight,  very 
graceful,  with  a  peaceful  serenity  of  manner  which  made 
her  seem  older  than  she  was.  Her  small,  smooth  dark 
head  was  by  no  means  fashionable  in  contour  ;  her  long 
neck  and  sweeping  garments  were  rather  distinguished 
than  "  smart"  ;  but  there  was  something  finely  aristo- 
cratic and  yet  gentle  in  her  manner  and  appearance 
which  made  her  more  remarked  upon  and  more  admired 
when  she  went  out  into  society,  than  many  a  well-known 
belle.  Edith  Daunay  did  not  go  into  society  very 
often,  for  she  was  poor,  and  could  not  afford  the  neces- 
sary carriages,  gloves,  flowers,  and  slippers,  to  say 
nothing  of  evening  gowns  ;  but  her  mother's  family  was 
so  well  known  that  she  could  have  had  quite  as  much 
gaiety  as  she  chose  to  accept. 

Jocelyn  was,  perhaps,  more  popular  than  his  -sister. 
8 


H4  Daunay's  Tower. 

He  was  a  fair,  handsome,  sweet-uatured  lad,  younger 
than  his  years,  as  she  was  older  than  hers  ;  a  kindly, 
wholesome  young  fellow,  with  a  good  deal  of  manliness 
underlying  the  surface  fun  and  youthful  jollity  of  his 
demeanor.  He  came  in  headlong,  falling  upon  his 
sister  and  whirling  her  round  in  an  impromptu  waltz 
before  he  said  a  word  of  explanation. 

"  There,  there  ! "  said  Edith  at  last,  in  a  breathless 
gasp.  "Do  stop  and  tell  me  where  you  have  been, 
Jocelyn  dear.  I  have  been  quite  anxious  about  you." 

"  Did  you  think  I  was  dead  ?  "  said  Jocelyn.  "  Well, 
I  have  been  nearly  so,  for  I  have  almost  died  of  laugh- 
ing. That  new-found  relation  of  ours  is  the  most 
awful  joke  I  ever  knew." 

"  What,  Mr.  John  Daunay  ?  " 

"  Mr.  John  Daunay,  of  Daunay  Tower,  otherwise 
Bellavista,  High  Rigg,  Cumberland.  Ye  powers, 
what  an  address !  If  ever  I  am  master  of  the 
place " 

"You,  Jocelyn?" 

"  Me,  ma'am.  Don't  you  know  he  wants  to  make 
me  his  heir?  I  say,  what  have  you  got  for  supper?  I 
am  awfully  hungry  ;  as  I  said,  I  have  laughed  till  I 
nearly  died." 

"I  ordered  dinner-tea,"  said  Edith,  rather  ruefully. 
"  I  will  make  the  tea  now.  There  is  cold  lamb  and 
mint  sauce,  salad,  stewed  raspberries  and  cream,  and 
some  savory  eggs." 

"  Lovely!  I'm  as  hungry  as  a  hunter.  Look  here, 
Edie,  I  am  very  sorry  about  the  theater,  but  I  couldn't 
help  myself.  Cousin  John  Daunay,  which  he  wants  us 
to  call  him  '  uncle/  pounced  on  me  and  carried  me  off 
to  his  house,  and  talked  so  seriously,  and  withal  so 


"Jos."  115 

comically,  that  I  could  not  tear  myself  away.  I  escaped 
at  length  by  the  skin  of  my  teeth  ;  but  we  must  go  to 
the  Comedy  another  night." 

"  You  seem  to  have  suffered,"  said  Edith,  as  they 
seated  themselves  at  the  dainty  little  table  where  the 
evening  meal  was  set  out.  The  maid-servant,  engaged 
for  the  day,  had  gone  home  ;  Edith  Daunay  herself 
would  clear  the  table  after  supper.  She  was  used  to 
the  little  domestic  duties  which  comparative  poverty 
made  necessary,  and  she  never  grumbled  at  them. 
Jocelyn,  whose  nature  and  tastes  were  very  simple,  was 
under  the  impression  that  they  lived  in  luxury.  Edith 
knew  better,  but  did  not  say  so. 

"  Well,"  said  Jocelyn,  when  he  was  expediting  the 
disappearance  of  the  cold  lamb — very  much  like  mut- 
ton— and  the  salad  which  Edith  herself  had  made, 
"  our  new-found  relative " 

"  Poor  old  man,  don't  make  fun  of  him,  Jocelyn ! 
He  seems  disposed  to  be  very  kind." 

"  I  should  love  him  better  if  he  did  not  call  me 
Jos.  It  suggests  Jos  Sedley.  Nobody  else  ever  called 
me  Jos.  Our  dear  uncle  John,  as  he  would  like  to  be 
called,  having  already  '  looked  me  up  '  several  times  at 
the  office,  fell  upon  me  just  as  I  was  leaving  this 
afternoon,  and  bore  me  off  to  his  house  in  Park 
Lane — a  house  which  it  seems  he  has  taken  for  the 
season." 

"  He  must  really  be  rich,"  said  Edith,  meditatively. 

"  Rich  beyond  the  dreams  of  avarice.  About  thirty 
thousand  a  year,  I  believe." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  The  eyes  of  the  brother 
and  sister  met  for  a  moment,  then  fell  away  from  each 
other.  It  was  Edith  who  spoke  first. 


1 1 6  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  For  myself,  I  do  not  care  whether  I  am  rich  or 
poor/'  she  said.  "  But  there  is  that  debt  of  dear 
father's  to  Uncle  Vavasour.  I  should  like  to  be  able  to 
pay  that  back." 

"  If  any  one  does  it,  it  must  be  I,"  said  Jocelyn  reso- 
lutely. "  It  was  for  my  college  life,  you  know.  If 
only  I  had  been  told  at  the  time,  I  would  rather  have 
swept  a  crossing  than  let  the  dear  old  man  burden  him- 
self in  that  way.  Five  hundred  pounds  would  not  be  a 
large  sum  to  many  men,  but  I  believe  the  debt  killed 
our  poor  father." 

"It  broke  his  heart.  Uncle  Vavasour  reproached 
him  with  borrowing  what  he  could  not  pay,"  said  Edith, 
in  a  hushed  voice. 

"  Well,  we're  going  to  pay  it — at  least,  I  am — in 
course  of  time,"  said  Jocelyn,  in  a  tone  of  dogged  de- 
termination. "  And  if  Mr.  Daunay  can  put  me  in  the 
way  of  doing  so  I  shall  be  very  glad. " 

"  Jocelyn  !     What  has  he  said  to  you  ?  " 

"  Nothing  very  definite.  But,  you  see,  Edie,  he  has 
no  son,  and  I'm  his  nearest  male  relative.  My  father 
and  he  were  first  cousins.  It  seems  that  he  has  a  great 
wish  that  the  Cumberland  place,  Daunay  Tower,  which 
belongs  to  him,  should  go  with  the  male  line,  but  it's 
not  entailed,  and  he  can  dispose  of  it  just  as  he 
pleases." 

"  But  he  has  a  daughter,  has  he  not  ?  He  men- 
tioned her  to  me  when  he  came  here,  but  he  did  not 
seem  to  know  much  about  the  poor  child." 

"  Poor  child  !  "  exclaimed  Jocelyn,  rather  resentfully. 
"  She's  a  young  woman  of  eighteen  or  twenty  years 
old,  and  the  queer  old  buffer's  got  it  into  his  head  that 
I  had  better  marry  her." 


"Jos."  117 

"  You,  Jocelyn  !  How  absurd  ! "  said  hia  sister,  who, 
of  course,  regarded  him  as  a  mere  boy. 

"  Well,  why  not  ?     If  she's  a  pretty  girl ' 

"But,  Jocelyn " 

"  Well  ?" — not  looking  up,  and  flushing  a  little,  as 
if  slightly  embarrassed.  "  Well,  Edie  ?  " 

"  I  thought,  dear,  that  yon  and  Mrs.  Wycherly — of 
course,  she  is  too  old  for  you,  but  I  fancied  that  you 
cared  for  her  a  good  deal,  and  that  there  was  some  sort 
of  understanding " 

Jocelyn  laughed,  but  blushed  as  well,  and  did  not 
seem  to  know  exactly  how  to  reply. 

"Mrs.  Wycherly,"  he  said  at  last.  "Oh,  she's 
awfully  kind  to  me,  you  know.  But  there's  nothing 
settled.  She's  very  pretty,  isn't  she,  Edith  ?  I  think 
she  has  the  loveliest  eyes  I  ever  saw." 

"She  has  very  beautiful  eyes,"  said  Edith,  with  a 
sigh.  There  was  a  flavor  of  dissatisfaction  in  her 
tone.  "  But  if  you  are  likely  to  be  engaged  to  her, 
Jocelyn,  it  is  no  use  to  let  Mr.  Daunay  think  that  you 
will  marry  his  daughter." 

"  Why,  of  course,"  said  Jocelyn,  passing  up  his 
plate  for  a  second  supply  of  cream.  "  But  he  made 
me  laugh  so  to-night  that  I  couldn't  answer  properly. 
The  girl  is  called  Annabella,  or  some  such  old-fashioned 
name.  He  hasn't  seen  her  since  she  was  a  baby,  old 
brute  !  He  left  her  at  a  farmhouse  in  Cumberland,  and 
she's  never  been  away  from  it.  Fancy  what  she  will  be 
like  after  eighteen  or  twenty  years  of  a  life  like  that, 
milking  the  cows  and  feeding  poultry,  he  said.  '  A 
very  healthy  life,  Jos,'  he  said — '  very  fitted  to  make  her 
the  mother  of  strong,  healthy  children.'  I  said,  '  Cer- 
tainly, sir,'  and  then  I'm  afraid  I  roared." 


n8  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Jocelyn,  you  are  incorrigible." 

"  Well,  it  was  too  fnnny.  He  proposes  now  to  take 
his  dairy-maid  out  of  the  farmhouse  and  marry  her, 
willy-nilly,  to  me  before  Christmas.  Did  you  ever  hear 
of  such  lunacy  ?  I  suggested  that  he  should  briug  her 
up  to  London,  and  that  you  should  take  her  about  and 
get  her  some  clothes." 

"  Jocelyn,  my  dear  !  " 

' '  It  will  be  rather  a  lark,  won't  it  ?  She'll  talk  broad 
Cumberland,  of  course,  and  if  she's  like  him  she'll  be 
very  heavy  in  hand.  He  says  her  mother  was  pretty." 

"  I  have  heard  of  her  mother,"  said  Edith,  gravely. 
"She  was  a  farmer's  daughter;  very  pretty,  but  un- 
educated." 

"Well,  Miss  Annabella  may  be  pretty  too,  but  she 
will  also  be  uneducated,"  said  Jocelyn,  in  a  tone  of 
great  amusement,  "  and  I  have  answered  for  it  that  you 
will  help  to  educate  her." 

"  But  how  am  I  to  do  that  ?  " 

"  He's  going  down  to  Cumberland  to  fetch  her  to 
London.  I  suggested  it.  Why  shouldn't  the  poor  lit- 
tle girl  see  something  of  the  world?  He  has  got  an  in- 
vitation or  two  for  her  already.  He  thinks  of  taking 
her  abroad  in  the  autumn,  when  ive  go,  you  know." 

"  But  is  not  all  this  on  the  supposition  that  you  are 
going  to  marry  her?"  said  Edith,  with  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  not.  I  gave  him  no  encouragement," 
said  Jocelyn,  laughing  boyishly.  "  But  I  was  too  much 
amused  to  answer  very  seriously.  When  he  brings  her 
back  to  London  we  shall  see  whether  we  can  make  any- 
thing of  her.  You'll  be  kind  to  her,  at  any  rate, 
won't  you,  Edie  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  she's  been  put 
upon." 


"Jos."  119 

"  Yes,  dear,  certainly.  I  will  do  all  I  can  for  her. 
But  if  the  idea  of  your  marrying  her  is  all  a  joke,  what 
is  he  likely  to  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  thought  he  might  get  me  a  post  abroad,"  ex- 
plained the  young  man,  rather  naively .  "  Or  he  might 
have  some  scheme  for  dividing  the  property.  If  the 
girl  and  I  could  divide  it,  or  if  even  I  had  a  share  of  it 
for  the  sake  of  my  name — for  you  know  we  belong  to 
the  old  place,  although  we  have  never  seen  it — why, 
then,  we  could  pay  back  that  five  hundred  pounds, 
at  any  rate." 

"  But  not  till  the  poor  old  man  was  dead,"  said  Edith 
in  a  low  voice.  "  And  I  never  like  the  idea  of  waiting 
for  dead  men's  shoes." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Jocelyn,  more  gravely.  "  But  I  was 
thinking  that  I  might  perhaps  lay  the  circumstances 
before  him,  and  ask  him  to  help  us.  Would  you 
mind  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  earn  the  money,"  said  Edith. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  is  impossible — under  twenty  years 
or  thereabouts." 

"  Debt  is  a  dreadful  burden  ;  let  us  never  get  into 
debt,"  said  his  sister,  with  a  little  shiver  of  repulsion. 

"You  are  right.  We  will  never  owe  a  penny  that 
we  cannot  pay,"  said  Jocelyn,  and  for  a  moment  his 
handsome,  fair  face  looked  quite  severe  as  he  said  the 
words. 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Then  Edith  moved  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  at  the  twilit  sky. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  to-night — anything  ?  " 
she  asked. 

"I  was  just  going  to  dress,"  said  Jocelyn,  with  a 
touch  of  embarrassment  in  his  voice.  "  I  promised  to 


I2O  Daunay's  Tower. 

look  in  at  the  Branksomes.  Won't  you  come  ?  You 
were  asked  too." 

"  I  am  too  tired.  I  shall  go  to  bed  early.  Is — is — 
Mrs.  Wycherly  to  be  there?  " 

"  Why,  of  course,"  said  her  brother,  gaily.  "  Isn't 
she  always  at  the  Branksomes?  She  told  me  to  be  sure 
to  come.  Why  don't  you  like  her,  Edith  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  that  I  don't  like  her — she  is  very  fascinat- 
ing ;  but  she  is  so  much  older  than  you,  Jocelyn,  dear, 
and  sometimes  I  think  that  she  is  not  altogether  to  be 
trusted." 

"  It  is  unlike  you  to  be  suspicious,"  said  Jocelyn,  re- 
proachfully. "  I  never  met  any  one  so  warm-hearted 
as  Lenore ;  and  she  is  always  saying  that  she  would 
like  to  be  friends  with  you,  only  that  you  keep  her  so 
much  at  a  distance." 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  Edith  murmured  ;  but  when  he 
was  gone  she  raised  her  head  and  repeated  the  name 
that  he  had  used  in  rather  a  startled  tone.  "  Lenore  ! 
Does  he  call  her  Lenore — already?" 

Perhaps,  under  the  circumstances,  Annabel  Daunay 
need  not  have  quarreled  with  her  father  on  Jocelyn's 
account. 


In  the  Conservatory. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IN  THE  CONSERVATORY. 

LADY  BRANKSOME  Avas  rather  noted  for  her  parties  ; 
they  were  of  a  mixed  kind,  but  not  so  mixed  as  to  be 
merely  commonplace.  She  had  always  a  number  of 
celebrities  at  her  soirees,  and  plenty  of  dancing  men 
whenever  she  gave  a  ball. 

Jocelyn  Daunay  was  not  so  averse  to  dancing  as  the 
generality  of  men  ;  he  had  good  spirits  and  agile  limbs, 
and  had  not  yet  attained  the  stage  of  looking  down  upon 
his  partners.  But  upon  the  present  occasion,  when  he 
left  Edith  alone  in  the  little  flat  near  Hyde  Park,  his 
mind  was  not  at  all  upon  the  dancing,  but  rather  upon 
the  one  fair  face  which  he  went  to  see. 

People  talked  a  good  deal  about  pretty  Mrs.  Wycherly. 
She  was  of  good  family  ;  she  had  married  a  man  old 
enough  to  be  her  father,  who  had  unfortunately  lost 
nearly  all  his  money  in  South  Africa,  and  had  then  been 
so  considerate  as  to  leave  her  a  widow  at  a  compara- 
tively early  age.  She  could  not  be  called  fast — indeed, 
she  was  always  scrupulously  well-behaved — but  she  had 
a  way  of  going  everywhere,  and  knowing  everybody,  and 
getting  all  the  best  things  of  life  to  an  extent  which 
made  some  people  raise  their  eyebrows  and  utter  cen- 
sorious remarks.  Where  did  she  get  her  lovely  frocks? 
Who  paid  the  rent  of  that  very  expensive  house  of  hers 
in  Mayfair  ?  Certainly  not  her  father,  who  was  an  im- 


122  Daunay's  Tower. 

pecunious  baronet  in  the  wilds  of  Somersetshire.  No- 
body implied  that  she  was  anything  but  rigidly  correct ; 
it  was  only  hinted  by  careful  mothers  to  their  daughters 
that  she  was  "  not  quite  nice."  And  there  was  mention 
of  high  play  in  her  luxurious  little  rooms,  and  of  valu- 
able presents  made  to  her  by  men  who  had  quite  enough 
to  do  to  pay  their  own  debts  and  to  make  their  way  in 
the  world. 

Why  she  flirted,  as  she  plainly  did,  with  Jocelyn  Dau- 
nay,  nobody  had  been  able  to  ascertain.  Jocelyn  was  a 
mere  clerk  in  the  Foreign  Office — well  connected,  no 
doubt,  but  with  no  money  to  speak  of,  and,  as  far  as 
the  world  knew,  without  any  prospects  at  all.  Mrs. 
Wycherly  did  not  usually  spend  her  time  over  such  in- 
eligible young  men.  One  or  two  persons  whispered 
darkly  that  she  had  fallen  in  love  with  him,  but  the 
suggestion,  when  made,  was  usually  received  with  deri- 
sion. Everybody  knew  that  Lenore  "Wycherly  had  no 
heart  ;  she  would  play  with  a  dozen  men,  one  after  the 
other,  or  together,  as  the  case  might  be,  and  throw  them 
over  at  a  moment's  notice  with  the  practised  ease  of 
a  born  coquette.  No  ;  the  world  said  Mrs.  Wycherly 
meant  to  marry  again,  and  when  she  married  she  would 
certainly  choose  a  rich  man.  She  had  no  taste  for 
poverty  ;  and  love  in  a  cottage  was  simply  abhorrent  to 
her  soul. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  Jocelyn  was  beginning  to  find  this 
out.  His  infatuation  was  just  a  little  on  the  wane  ; 
there  had  been  some  stories  told  of  her  which  had 
shocked  him,  although  he  knew  his  own  world  and  hers 
pretty  well.  But  in  some  ways  Jocelyn  had  old-fashioned 
tastes.  He  had  been  brought  up  in  a  country  vicarage, 
his  mother  and  his  sister  had  been  essentially  refined 


In  the  Conservatory.  123 

gentlewomen,  and  he  had  never  grown  aecast£»med  to 
the  cigarette  between  Lenore  Wycherly's  pretty  lips  in 
the  seclusion  of  her  own  boudoir  ;  to  her  habit  of  mak- 
ing bets — and  of  winning  them,  too, — or  to  her  excite- 
ment over  some  gambling  game  when  the  stakes  were  so 
high  that  they  gave  Jocelyn  a  qualm  which  he  did  not 
like  to  show.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  was  very 
much  afraid  of  being  laughed  at  for  his  obsolete  notions 
of  what  was  due  to  womanhood.  And  then  Lenore  was 
really  very  pretty.  She  had  a  pathetic  trick  with  her 
eyes  ;  they  looked  up  at  you  from  under  their  sweeping 
lashes  with  a  gaze  which  seemed  to  entreat  pity  and  pro- 
tection, and  her  low,  caressing  voice  had  a  charm  which 
very  few  men  could  resist. 

Jocelyn  found  her,  as  usual,  surrounded  by  a  little 
group  of  admirers,  and  hovered  for  some  time  on  the 
verge  of  the  circle  without  being  able  to  make  his  way 
to  her  side.  He  thought  at  tirst  that  she  even  avoided 
his  eye,  as  if  she  were  not  anxious  for  his  society  ;  but 
by  and  by  his  moment  came.  She  sent  him  a  long, 
smiling  look,  full  of  invitation,  and  at  the  same  time 
a  word  or  a  wave  of  her  fan — Jocelyn  scarcely  knew  how 
she  managed  it — dispersed  the  little  circle  of  her 
admirers,  so  that  presently  the  young  man  found  him- 
self almost  alone  with  her.  A  wave  of  the  old  admira- 
tion welled  up  in  him  as  he  looked  at  her.  She  was  a 
dainty  little  woman,  perfectly  proportioned,  but  pecu- 
liarly slight  and  slender  ;  the  dusky  masses  of  her  wavy 
hair  looked  almost  too  heavy  for  the  small  head  round 
which  they  were  coiled,  and  her  beautiful  dark  eyes  were 
full  of  a  certain  sort  of  dreamy  languor,  more  usually  seen 
in  a  southern  woman  than  in  the  natives  of  our  own  land. 
Lenore's  mother  had  been  a  lovely  Mexican  whom  her 


124  Daunay's  Tower. 

father  had  met  in  some  of  his  wanderings  abroad,  and 
it  was  supposed  that  many  of  Lenore's  characteristics 
were  inherited  from  her. 

But  her  complexion  was  not  of  the  olive  tint  which 
we  associate  with  her  mother's  nationality.  She  had 
the  peachlike  bloom  of  an  Englishwoman,  along  with 
a  certain  velvety  softness  and  dewy  freshness  of  skin 
and  color  which  were  almost  infantile  in  their  exquisite 
perfection.  She  was  wearing  a  yellow  dress,  which  be- 
came her  admirably,  and  the  diamonds  in  her  dark  hair 
and  upon  her  slender  neck  sparkled  and  danced — the 
simile  is  old  enough — like  stars  in  the  gloom  of  evening 
or  dewdrops  on  the  petal  of  a  rose.  Jocelyn  wished 
that  he  was  clever  enough  to  tell  her  so,  but  he  had  dif- 
ficulty in  finding  suitable  words.  His  eyes  spoke  for 
him  if  he  had  but  known  it,  and  Mrs.  Wycherly  was 
quite  content  with  the  homage  which  they  conveyed. 

"  Come  and  sit  down  by  me/'  she  said,  indicating  a 
vacant  seat  at  her  side.  "Do  you  know,  I  have  been 
keeping  this  chair  for  you  ever  so  long  !  I  knew  you 
would  come." 

"I  am  late,"  said  Jocelyn;  "but  not  too  late  to 
claim  a  dance  with  you,  I  trust." 

"  I  am  not  dancing  to-night,"  she  said  languidly. 
"  The  room  is  crowded,  and  it  is  not  worth  while  ;  but 
you  may  sit  out  with  me,  if  you  like.  I  have  even  gone 
so  far  as  to  write  your  initials  once  or  twice  on  my  card 
without  consulting  you — a  very  audacious  proceeding  ! 
How  do  I  know  that  you  are  not  already  engaged  to 
dance  with  some  one  else  ?  " 

"  Do  you  think  I  should  be  likely  to  ask  any  one  be- 
fore you  ?  "  said  Jocelyn,  possessing  himself  of  her  card 
and  making  his  initials  as  big  and  black  as  he  possibly 


In  the  Conservatory.  125 

could  with  the  futile  little  pencil  which  dangled  from 
it.  "I  only  came  to  see  you,  as  yon  very  well 
know.  I  don't  usually  go  to  dances."  But  he  said 
this  rather  by  way  of  assuming  the  air  of  a  man  of  the 
world  ;  for,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  danced  as  often  as 
he  could. 

"Then  you  are  very  foolish,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly, 
with  a  little  coldness  in  her  tone.  "  You  are  quite 
young  enough  to  enjoy  yourself  at  a  dance.  It  is  I  who 
should  say  that  I  do  not  care  for  balls.  Of  all  sorts  of 
amusements,  dancing  is  the  most  wearisome." 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  that ! "  said  Jocelyn,  softly,  and 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  ardor  in  his  honest  blue  eyes 
with  which  he  regarded  her — "  when  you  know  that  it 
makes  me  so  happy  to  see  you  here/'  he  added,  with 
more  warmth  than  he  had  ever  yet  dared  to  put  into 
his  voice  ;  but  it  was  easier  to  put  it  into  his  voice  when 
he  did  not  feel  it  as  much  as  he  had  done  earlier  in  the 
season. 

"  You  are  improving,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly,  with 
an  amused  laugh ;  "you  will  soon  know  how  to  say 
things  quite  prettily.  Take  me  into  the  conservatory. 
There  are  some  orchids  that  you  ought  to  see  ;  and  we 
can  find  a  quiet  corner  where  you  can  tell  me  how  it  is 
that  you  are  so  late." 

Jocelyn  burst  into  one  of  his  happy  laughs — a  laugh 
so  infectious  by  reason  of  its  genuine  mirth  that  even 
Lenore  envied  him  its  zest. 

"  The  funniest  thing  in  the  world  ! "  he  exclaimed  as 
he  piloted  her  steps  to  the  secluded  little  lounge,  just 
large  enough  for  two,  which  Lady  Branksome  had 
thoughtfully  provided  at  the  extreme  end  of  her  softly 
lighted  bower  of  ferns  and  blossoms.  "  We  have  un- 


126  Daunay's  Tower. 

earthed  a  new  relation,  or  at  least  an  old  one,  and  he 
seems  inclined  to  make  our  fortunes  if  we  will  let  him." 

Lenore  waved  her  fan  slowly  to  and  fro,  and  smiled 
the  prettily  innocent  little  smile  of  a  person  quite  above 
the  pomps  and  vanities  of  this  wicked  world.  Never- 
theless, there  was  a  gleam  of  a  lurking  curiosity  in  the 
velvety  brown  eyes  which  she  slowly  turned  upon  him. 

"  How  delightful  !"  she  murmured.  "  And  who  is 
your  generous  benefactor  ?  " 

"  His  name  is  the  same  as  our  own,"  said  Jocelyn. 
"  Daunay — John  Dannay,  of  a  place  that  they  call 
Daunay's  Tower,  somewhere  in  the  Cumberland  Fells." 

"  I  have  heard  of  him,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly,  rather 
eagerly.  "  He  has  been  a  good  deal  talked  about,  be- 
cause he  made  a  fortune  in  some  remarkable  way  at  the 
Cape.  He  was  quite  a  poor  man  to  begin  with,  I 
believe." 

"Well,  comparatively,"  said  Jocelyn.  ''He  had 
this  Cumberland  estate — a  few  barren  acres,  I  fancy, 
and  a  queer  old  rambling  house.  But  there  was  not 
much  money  attached.  I  suppose  we  are  cousins  of 
his.  My  father  and  he  were  first  cousins,  so  we  are 
his  first  cousins  once  removed  ;  at  least  he  says  so, 
and  he  ought  to  know." 

"Very  interesting,  I  am  sure,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly, 
with  her  eyes  half  closed.  "  And  has  he  declared  his 
intention  of  adopting  yon  and  making  you  his  heir  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Jocelyn,  with  an  ingenuous  laugh  and 
something  of  a  blush.  "  He  has  made  some  such  pro- 
position. He  has  an  affection  for  the  old  place  in 
Cumberland,  and  wants  it  to  pass  into  the  hands  of 
another  Daunay  like  himself,  and  I  am  the  next  of  kin, 
it  seems,  after  his  daughter." 


In  the  Conservatory.  127 

"  Oh,  there  is  a  daughter,  is  there  ?  A.nd  what  does 
he  mean  to  do  with  her  ?  " 

"  That  is  the  funny  part  of  it,"  said  Jocelyn,  begin- 
ning to  laugh  again.  Then  he  suddenly  grew  grave, 
and  spoke  with  seriousness.  "  It  puts  me  into  an 
awkward  position,  rather,  for,  of  course,  I  don't  want 
to  dispossess  the  girl  ;  only  the  extraordinary  thing  is 
that  the  old  man  has  not  seen  her  since  she  was  a  baby, 
and  does  not  seem  to  care  about  her  at  all.  He  says 
that  it  is  folly  to  leave  a  fortune  or  an  estate  to  a 
woman." 

"  I  should  think,  myself,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly,  (<  that 
it  was  the  very  best  use  he  could  put  it  to.  Men  can 
work  for  themselves,  and  make  their  way  in  the  world, 
but  we  poor  women — what  is  there  for  us  if  we  are  not 
provided  for  ?  We  are  so  weak  we  need  some  one  to 
lean  upon  ;  we  cannot  act  for  ourselves." 

"Well,"  said  Jocelyn,  possessing  himself  of  her 
dainty  fan,  and  waving  it  slowly  to  and  fro  before  her 
face — the  movement  gave  him  such  an  excellent  op- 
portunity of  studying  the  contour  of  her  features  and 
the  curves  taken  by  the  loose  tendrils  of  hair — "the 
fact  is  that  Mr.  Daunay  is  rather  of  your  opinion  ; 
but  draws  a  different  conclusion  from  it.  Just  because 
women  are  so  helpless,  and  need  to  lean  on  some  one 
stronger  than  themselves,  he  says  that  they  had  better 
not  have  the  responsibility  of  a  fortune  ;  he  thinks  it 
should  be  left  to  some  one  who  can  watch  over  them 
and  relieve  them  from  all  care  and  anxiety." 

"  And  does  he  want  you  to  undertake  the  responsi- 
bility of  his  daughter  as  well  as  of  his  fortune  ?"  in- 
quired Mrs.  Wycherly,  with  a  flavor  of  irony  in  her  tone. 

Jocelyn  hesitated  a  little.     It  was  one  thing  to  tell 


128  Daunay's  Tower. 

the  whole  story  to  Edith,  and  another  to  pour  it  into 
the  ears  of  Mrs.  Wycherly,  beautiful  and  bewitching 
as  she  might  be.  He  had  lately  had  his  suspicions 
of  Mrs.  Wycherly's  capacity  for  keeping  a  secret — to 
put  it  in  charitable  words. 

"  I  think,"  he  began  slowly,  ee  that  Mr.  Daunay 
must  have  had  some  idea  of  the  sort  in  his  mind  ; 
but,  of  course,  as  the  young  lady  in  question  has  never 
seen  me,  and  I  have  never  seen  her,  it  does  not  seem 
at  all  likely  that  any  such  consummation  should  be 
achieved.  Besides  " — with  a  half  laughing  look  into 
her  eyes — "  my  heart's  bespoken,  you  know." 

"  Already  ?  "  she  said,  glancing  up  at  him  with  her 
most  winning  smile.  "  But  you  are  too  young  to  know 
your  own  mind  yet.  In  a  few  years  you  will  be  wiser 
than  you  are  now." 

"  I  think  I  show  my  wisdom,"  said  Jocelyn,  a  little 
ambiguously  ;  and  his  lips  were  so  perilously  near  her 
hand  as  he  spoke  that  if  Lenore  had  not  slowly  with- 
drawn it  he  would  certainly  have  bestowed  the  kiss 
which  its  dainty  outline  and  tinting  seemed  to  pro- 
voke. She  had  taken  off  her  glove,  and  her  hand  and 
arm  were  particularly  beautiful  :  people  were  in  the 
habit  of  saying  that  that  was  why  she  showed  them  so 
much.  Mrs.  Wycherly's  hand  was  certainly  one  of 
her  strong  points. 

Jocelyn  drew  back  a  little.  After  all,  he  was  rather 
glad  that  he  had  not  saluted  that  pretty  little  hand. 
It  was  easy  to  go  too  far.  He  admired  Lenore 
Wycherly  more  than  any  woman  he  had  ever  met,  and  he 
had  noticed  that  she  did  not  seem  to  dislike  any  ap- 
proach that  he  had  hitherto  made  to  love-making  ;  but 
then  he  had  also  noticed  that  he  was  not  the  only  man 


In  the  Conservatory.  129 

whom  she  allowed  to  make  love  to  her,  and  he  had  a 
fancy  for  a  monopoly.  There  was  a  little  change  in  his 
voice  when  he  spoke  again. 

"  Mr.  Daunay  has  gone  down  to  Cumberland,  and  in- 
tends, I  believe,  to  bring  his  daughter  up  to  town." 

"  So  that  you  may  inspect  her,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Wycherly,  with  malice  in  her  laugh.  "  What  a  very 
interesting  situation  !  Don't  you  feel  like  a  sultan 
about  to  throw  the  handkerchief  ?  " 

"  You  don't  suppose,"  said  Jocelyn,  rather  indig- 
nantly, "  that  I  mean  to  let  myself  be  guided  either  by 
Mr.  Daunay  or  anybody  else  in  so  important  a  matter 
as  the  choice  of  a  wife  ?  " 

"  You  might  do  worse,"  said  Lenore,  looking  at  him 
with  eyes  that  laughed,  and  yet  were  wistful  at  the 
same  time.  "  You  ought  to  marry  a  rich  wife,  Jocelyn. 
You  will  not  get  on  in  the  world  without  money.  Oh, 
what  slaves  we  are  to  convention  !  If  only  we  lived  in 
some  delightful  Arcadia  where  no  one  cared  whether 
one  were  rich  or  poor  ! " 

"Why  should  we  care  ?"  said  Jocelyn,  heedlessly. 
Then  a  look  came  over  his  face  which  Mrs.  Wycherly 
had  never  seen  before.  The  features  grew  stern  and  set 
for  a  moment.  The  memory  of  something  which  now 
and  then  shadowed  his  young  life  and  damped  his 
spirits  recurred  to  him  with  overwhelming  force.  "  I 
atn  wrong,"  he  said,  almost  abruptly.  "  It  is  right  with- 
in certain  limits,  to  want  money.  I  suppose  one  cannot 
very  well  be  thoroughly  honest  without  it." 

"  Tell   me,"  said  Lenore,  in  her   softest  and  most 
caressing  voice,  "  does  this  Mr.  Dan  nay  make  it  a  con- 
dition that  you  should  marry  his  daughter  before  he 
provides  for  you  or  leaves  you  his  fortune  ?  " 
9 


130  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  I  conld  not  say/'  replied  Jocelyn,  doubtfully  ;  "  and, 
after  all,  I  don't  quite  like  to  speculate  about  it. 
There  is  no  reason  why  he  should  give  me  anything  un- 
less he  chooses,  and  it  would  be  quite  impossible  for 
me  to  supplant  his  daughter.  One  could  not  take  the 
money  at  her  expense/' 

"No,  of  course  not/'  said  Mrs.  Wycherly,  faintly. 
But  she  did  not  seem  quite  certain  of  her  own  opinion. 
She  looked  down  at  her  hands,  and  began  playing  with 
the  rings  upon  her  wedding  finger.  "  I  can  foresee  the 
end,"  she  said,  a  little  sadly.  "  You  will  argue  and 
protest  and  quarrel,  perhaps,  with  the  old  man  for  a 
time,  and  then  you  will  finally  yield  and  marry  the 
heiress  ;  and  you  will  be  rich  and  courted,  and  invited 
everywhere,  and  will  forget  all  about  your  old  friends 
who  were  fond  of  you  for  your  own  sake  when  you  had 
no  money  at  all." 

She  raised  her  eyes  for  a  moment  to  his  face  with 
one  of  her  most  bewildering,  pathetic  glances,  and  Joce- 
lyn was  conscious  of  a  sudden  rush  of  blood  to  his 
face  ;  of  a  sudden  impulse  to  say  something  tender  and 
reassuring  that  would  show  her  he  was  not  so  heart- 
less as  she  evidently  considered  him  to  be.  He  spoke 
in  quite  a  moved  and  shaken  voice;  Mrs.  Wycherly 
almost  fancied  that  there  were  tears  in  those  handsome, 
though  absurdly  boyish,  blue  eyes. 

"I  shall  never  forget — never!"  he  said.  "Those 
who  are  my  friends  now  will  be  my  friends  for  a  life- 
time." 

"But  when  you  are  married,"  she  said,  slowly,  "  you 
will  have  to  do  what  your  wife  wishes,  especially  if  you 
marry  your  cousin." 

<fYou   forget,"  said  Jocelyn,  recovering  himself  a 


In  the  Conservatory.  131 

little,  "  that  most  probably  my  cousin  will  not  marry 
me." 

"Oh  ! "  Mrs.  Wycherly  drew  a  long  breath.  She 
almost  looked  as  if  some  perfectly  new  idea  had  occurred 
to  her.  "In  that  case,"  she  said,  "do  tell  me  what 
her  father  would  do  ?  Would  he  not  be  rather  an- 
noyed if  he  has  set  his  heart  upon  this  little  plan  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  he  would,"  said  Jocelyn.  "  But,  you 
see,  I  don't  know  him  well  enough  to  be  able  to  tell 
you  how  a  refusal  would  strike  him.  I  think  he  has 
been  pretty  well  accustomed  to  have  his  own  way." 

"  Then,  as  he  is  so  anxious  to  see  his  estate  in  the 
hands  of  some  one  of  his  own  name,  would  he  not  be 
rather  likely  to  leave  it  to  you  and  disinherit  her  ?" 

"  If  he  did,  I  should  never  touch  a  penny  of  it/' 
said  Jocelyn,  hotly. 

"That  would  be  foolish,"  she  murmured,  with  a 
faint,  fleeting  smile.  "  You  see,  you  could  make  it  up 
to  her  afterwards  in  some  other  way.  I  think  myself 
it  would  be  the  best  plan  of  all." 

"I  am  not  likely  to  be  tried,"  said  Jocelyn.  "  But 
in  the  mean  time  I  am  rather  anxious  to  see  the  un- 
known cousin  when  she  comes  up  to  town." 

"Yes,  it  will  be  amusing,"  said  Mrs.  "Wycherly. 
"  She  will  be  quite  a  hoyden,  no  doubt,  or  a  shy  little 
thing  with  nothing  to  say  for  herself.  What  a  pity  it 
is  to  bring  up  girls  in  the  country  !  I  know  the  dis- 
advantages of  it  myself.  Until  I  was  eighteen  I  had  been 
nowhere  and  seen  nobody.  The  consequence  was  that  I 
was  quite  ready  to  do  what  I  was  told,  without  asking  any 
questions  ;  and  I  suffered  afterwards  for  my  inexpe- 
rience." 

She  drew  a  long  sigh,  and  looked  pensive,    while 


132  Daunay's  Tower. 

Jocelyn  hastily  recalled  to  his  mind  various  stories  he 
had  heard  of  the  late  Mr.  Wycherly,  and  pitied  the 
woman  who  had  been  Mr.  Wycherly's  wife. 

But  Lenore  thought  that  she  observed  a  suspicion  of 
boredom  in  his  manner,  and  she  made  haste  to  change 
the  subject. 

"Surely,"  she  Baid,  "we  have  talked  about  sordid 
subjects  long  enough,  and  we  have  not  even  glanced  at 
the  flowers.  Take  me  to  see  them,  and  tell  me  when 
dear  Edith  is  coming  to  have  a  chat  with  me.  She  is 
so  sweet ;  and  I  so  seldom  see  her  in  the  whirl  of  a 
London  season. " 

"  We  shall  meet  in  the  autumn,  I  hope,"  said  Jocelyn, 
quickly.  "  We  are  going  to  Scotland — to  the  same 
house,  are  we  not  ?  I  hope  you  won't  be  tired  of  meet- 
ing us ! " 

"  How  could  I  be  tired  ? "  said  Mrs.  Wycherly. 
"  Does  one  ever  tire  of  people  whom  one — loves  ?  " 
Her  voice  sank  almost  to  a  whisper  as  she  said  the  last 
word. 

Jocelyn,  raised  to  a  state  of  mingled  expectancy  and 
bewilderment,  would  possibly  have  said  something  by 
which  the  course  of  his  whole  career  might  have  been 
decided  had  not  interruption  occurred  in  the  shape  of 
one  of  Mrs.  Wycherly's  admirers,  who  stepped  forward 
and  claimed  her  for  the  dance  which  he  had  bespoken. 

Jocelyn  watched  them  disappear  down  one  of  the 
long  corridors  in  search  of  a  secluded  nook,  where  they 
could  sit  out  together  as  she  had  already  sat  out  with 
him  ;  and  he  felt  a  thrill  of  unreasonable  anger  and  dis- 
gust as  he  realized  for  once  that  Mrs.  Wycherly  was  in 
the  habit  of  having  more  than  one  string  to  her  bow. 


On  the  Hills.  133 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ON   THE   HILLS. 

IT  was  not  in  human  nature  that  Dr.  Lechmere 
should  not  afterwards  repent  the  revelation  that  he  had 
made  to  Annabel.  His  conscience  had  forced  him  to  con- 
fess to  her  the  very  thing  which,  of  all  others,  he  desired 
not  to  make  known.  Yet,  under  the  circumstances, 
there  had  seemed  to  him  no  other  way  by  which  he 
could  save  both  himself  and  her ;  but  when  the 
heroic  moment  was  over  he  was  tortured  by  the  belief 
that  he  had  irremediably  lowered  himself  in  her  eyes, 
and  that  the  relations  between  them  could  never  be 
what  they  had  been  before,  and  in  this  respect  he  was 
right.  An  interview  such  as  that  which  had  passed  be- 
tween himself  and  the  girl  could  not  be  without  its 
effect  upon  Annabel's  heart  and  mind.  From  her 
veriest  babyhood  she  had  looked  up  to  him  as  her  men- 
tor and  guide.  Jane  Arnold  had  carefully  sheltered 
her  from  contact  with  the  rougher  world  about  them, 
and  she  had  scarcely  heard  the  many  comments  and 
conjectures  in  which  the  neighborhood  had  indulged 
with  respect  to  Eugene's  history.  In  a  less  secluded 
part  of  the  world  his  story  would  probaby  have  been 
well  known,  or  at  least  it  would  more  easily  have  leaked 
out,  through  the  medium  of  some  well-informed  person 
who  remembered  the  events  of  the  past  twenty  years  and 
possessed  a  file  of  old  newspapers.  The  incidents  to 


134  Daunay's  Tower. 

which  he  alluded  had  been  common  talk  at  one  time,  and 
when  he  first  came  to  the  neighborhood  of  High  Rigg 
it  had  been  in  order  to  hide  himself  in  some  spot  where 
he  imagined  that  things  of  the  outer  world  did  not 
penetrate.  So  far  he  had  been  right.  Old  John  Dau- 
nay  might  know  his  story ;  even  in  Carlisle  he  fancied 
that  men  sometimes  looked  at  him  shrewdly  and  closely, 
as  if  they  suspected  his  connection  with  the  scandal  of 
bygone  days  ;  in  some  of  the  big  country  houses  to 
which  his  skill  had  caused  him  to  be  summoned  he  had 
seen  people  eye  him  with  covert  dislike  ;  but  if  he  had 
secretly  winced  nobody  had  noticed  it,  for  it  was  the 
aim  of  his  whole  life  to  keep  a  bold  front  towards  the 
world.  He  was  not  only  bold,  he  was  defiant.  He  had 
been  told  that  he  ought  never  to  pursue  his  profession 
again  ;  there  was  not  a  doctor  in  England  who  would 
meet  him  in  consultation  or  hold  out  a  friendly  hand  to 
him  if  his  story  had  been  known.  He  had  disgraced 
himself  irretrievably  in  the  eyes  of  all  medical  men ; 
yet  he  had  said  to  himself  when  he  came  out  of  the  pris- 
on where  he  had  spent  two  awful  years,  that,  in  spite 
of  all,  he  would  not  be  beaten  :  if  he  could  not  practise 
in  London  or  a  large  town,  he  would  practise  in  the 
country  ;  he  would  not  be  defrauded  of  his  right  to  work 
at  the  profession  which  still  seemed  to  him  the  best  and 
noblest  in  the  world. 

For  the  man  was  not  a  bad  man,  although  he  had 
faults  and  even  vices.  Although  he  had  committed 
what  the  law  called  a  crime,  in  his  own  heart,  perhaps, 
he  knew  how  little,  on  the  whole,  he  had  been  worthy 
of  blame.  He  had  suffered  a  terrible  penalty  for  a  very 
common  weakness,  and  he  knew  that  the  "world's 
coarse  thumb  and  finger  failed  to  plumb  "  the  real  na- 


On  the  Hills.  135 

ture  of  his  offense,  which  had  been  accident  more  than 
crime.  But  an  accident  which  leads  to  a  man's  death 
sometimes  counts  as  murder  :  this  had  been  the  case 
with  Eugene  Lechmere  ;  and  although  he  blamed  him- 
self bitterly  for  the  causes  which  had  led  to  that  acci- 
dent, for  the  reckless  dissipation  and  intemperance 
which  had  been  the  determining  forces  that  marred  his 
life,  he  knew  himself  no  worse  than  many  a  man  who 
had  escaped  exposure  and  gained  for  himself  in  later 
life  a  fair  renown. 

At  the  same  time  he  was  very  bitter — there  was  no 
doubt  about  it.  He  had  been  unfairly  treated,  and  by 
those  who  might  have  known  him  better.  He  did  not 
blame  judge  or  jury  or  medical  witnesses,  or  the  gov- 
ernor and  warders  of  the  jail  in  which  he  had  been 
lodged  ;  they  only  did  their  duty,  and  walked  by  the 
light  of  evidence.  But  he  did  blame  the  friends  who 
had  selfishly  refused  to  have  a  word  to  say  to  him,  the 
family  who  had  cast  him  off  with  a  pittance  only  suf- 
ficient to  keep  him  from  starvation,  indignantly  and 
even  insolently  refused  by  him.  There  had  even  been 
a  dearer  interest  in  his  life  which  he  had  sacrificed,  a 
woman  whose  help  and  sympathy  might  have  preserved 
him  from  the  down-hill  road  which  he  then  began  to 
tread.  But  she,  like  all  the  rest,  had  thrown  him  over  at 
the  first  breath  of  disgrace,  and  he  had  been  left,  as  he 
said  to  himself  very  bitterly,  to  go  to  the  devil  his  own 
way.  That  he  did  not  go  to  the  devil  resulted  in  part 
from  the  passionate  love  of  his  profession,  which  had 
become  a  portion  of  his  being — he  had  chosen  to  pur- 
sue it  with  dogged  determination  among  the  wild  Cum- 
berland hills,  where,  at  least,  nobody  could  reproach 
him  with  his  past — in  part  it  came  from  the  fact  that 


136  Daunay's  Tower. 

Jane  Arnold  had  given  him  her  friendship  in  return 
for  one  impulsive  act  of  kindness  when  her  sister  died. 
That  friendship  had  brought  with  it  the  care  of 
Annabel  Daunay,  who  had  made  the  brightness — if 
there  were  any  brightness — of  all  the  rest  of  Dr.  Lech- 
mere's  life.  To  make  his  bi-weekly  inspection  of  An- 
nabel, to  teach  her,  to  play  with  her,  to  form  her 
growing  mind  as  far  as  he  was  able,  had  been  the 
greatest  interest  of  all  his  days.  He  had  never  con- 
templated the  sequence  of  events  which  had  now  oc- 
curred ;  it  seemed  unlikely  to  him  that  after  all  these 
years  John  Daunay  should  come  back  to  the  fells  and 
claim  his  daughter  and  wish  to  take  her  away  from  him. 
It  had  been  a  much  more  likely  thing  that  he  should 
leave  her  in  her  obscurity,  the  unloved  child  of  a  for- 
gotten mother,  to  live  and  die  among  the  Cumberland 
hills.  He  had  vaguely  fancied  to  himself  sometimes 
how  things  should  turn  out,  how  Annabel  might  meet 
in  Carlisle,  or  at  the  house  of  one  of  her  very  few  ac- 
quaintances, some  man  who  would  be  worthy  of  her 
love,  who  would  marry  her  and  take  her  to  a  home  of 
her  own,  where  she  would  live  in  peace  and  happiness, 
not  troubled  by  any  knowledge  of  the  stern  and  irasci- 
ble old  father  who  had  despised  her  from  her  birth.  That 
he,  Eugene  Lechmere,  with  all  the  burden  of  his  past 
upon  him,  with  his  five  and  forty  years,  his  poverty  and 
his  growing  unsociability  and  moroseness  (or  so  he  told 
himself),  should  prove  so  utterly  weak  as  to  fall  in  love 
with  a  girl  whom  he  had  known  since  babyhood,  and  to 
whom  he  had  been  simply  a  kind,  good  friend — this  in- 
deed would  have  seemed  to  his  mind  a  folly  greater 
than  any  that  he  had  committed  in  the  days  of  his 
youth  ;  and  perhaps  not  only  a  folly  but  a  crime. 


On  the  Hills.  137 

As  he  drove  about  the  country  roads  in  his  usual 
furious  fashion,  trim,  alert,  bright-eyed,  a  little  fierce 
sometimes  in  manner  and  speech,  nobody  would  ever 
have  imagined  that  he  was  eating  his  heart  out  with 
remorse  as  bitter  as  it  was  unavailing  for  that  past 
which  had  rendered  him  an  outcast  from  the  homes  of 
honest  men  ;  and  for  that  mad  love  of  his  for  Annabel, 
of  which  he  knew  that  he  could  never  divest  himself 
on  this  side  of  the  grave. 

Fortunately,  she  did  not  return  it  ;  fortunately,  she 
did  not  even  guess  that  he  had  any  feeling  for  her  but 
that  of  a  friend.  He  had  taken  care  of  that.  He  bit 
his  lip  when  he  thought  of  the  words  that  he  had  been 
obliged  to  say  ;  he  hated  to  feel  that  he  had  lowered 
himself  in  her  eyes,  yet  how  else  could  he  have  escaped 
the  burden  of  her  innocent  trust — of  the  respect  and 
affection  which  might  any  time  have  ripened  into 
love  ?  He  put  the  thought  of  it  away  from  him  as  if  it 
had  been  an  accursed  thing.  Sooner,  as  he  had  told 
Mr.  Daunay,  would  he  die  than  ask  Annabel  to  be  his 
wife  ;  he  would  be  doing  her  a  wrong  ;  she  must  marry 
a  man  whom  she  could  reverence  as  well  as  love. 

But  it  was  difficult  to  look  Annabel  in  the  face.  It 
was  difficult  to  remember  that  she  knew  only  half  the 
story — that  he  had  deliberately  told  her  the  part  that 
soniided  worst — that  had  the  ring  of  greatest  degrada- 
tion in  the  telling.  What  thing  soever  it  was  that  he 
had  done — call  it  murder,  manslaughter,  an  accidental 
injury  to  another  man — had  been  done  when  he  was 
drunk.  His  counsel  at  the  trial  had  made  the  most  of 
that  fact  by  way  of  defense.  It  had  never  seemed  to 
Lechmere  any  defense  at  all ;  nor  had  it  seemed  so  to 
his  old  father,  who  sat  with  gray  head  bowed  during 


138  Daunay's  Tower. 

those  sad  hours  to  listen  to  the  story  of  his  son's  dis- 
solute habits  of  life.  His  vices,  his  extravagances,  his 
reckless  revels  with  boon  companions,  were  all  dragged 
to  the  light  of  day.  There  were  leading  articles  in 
newspapers  about  "  the  worthless  profligate "  whose 
unsteady  hand  and  drink-dimmed  eye  had  caused  a 
young  man's  death.  Eugene  Lechmere  got  off  lightly 
with  his  sentence  of  two  years'  imprisonment  for  man- 
slaughter ;  and  few  persons  cared  to  ask  what  became 
of  him  when  he  came  out  of  prison  and  laughed  in  the 
faces  of  those  who  tried  to  ship  him  off  to  Australia, 
flung  their  money  back  to  them,  and  said  that  he  had 
been  born  a  doctor,  and  a  doctor  he  would  be,  in  spite 
of  them  all. 

Well,  he  had  kept  his  word  ;  and  he  had  had  his 
hours  of  happiness.  His  healing  craft  had  kept  his 
mental  faculties  as  well  as  his  heart  alive.  The  long 
drives  or  rides  in  the  open  air,  the  fine  breezes  on  the 
hillside,  the  silence  of  the  fells,  had  been  of  service  to 
him.  His  nature  had  clarified  itself  ;  the  latent  re- 
finement of  his  tastes,  cultivated  in  a  beautiful  English 
home  when  he  was  a  boy,  had  made  a  prominent  place 
for  themselves  in  his  daily  life.  He  could  be  reckless 
and  bitter  still ;  but  not  as  he  had  been  when  he  first 
came  to  the  sober  Cumberland  folk.  And  now  was  all 
this  hard-won  peace  to  be  overturned  because  a  girl's 
sweet  eyes  had  smiled  at  him  ? 

He  kept  away  from  Annabel.  He  vowed  that  he 
would  try  to  forget  her.  And  then  there  came  a  note 
in  which  she  asked  him  to  visit  her  aunt,  who  was  ailing, 
and  reproached  him  for  his  absence.  So,  wibh  a  curi- 
ously dogged  setting  of  his  features,  he  went  to  the 
Moorside  Farm. 


On  the  Hills.  139 

Annabel  was  quick  to  notice  the  change  in  him.  He 
talked  freely,  even  gaily ;  he  rallied  Jane  Arnold  on  her 
imaginary  ailments,  as  he  called  them  ;  he  discussed  the 
news  of  the  day,  and  inveighed  vehemently  against  his 
political  opponents  ;  but  he  would  not  look  at  Annabel, 
even  when  he  spoke  to  her,  and  he  would  not  stay  to 
tea. 

"  "Why  not  ?  "  she  asked,  when  he  had  left  Miss  Ar- 
nold's room,  and  was  going  rapidly  down-stairs.  She 
was  following  him,  and  saw  that  he  paused  for  a  mo- 
ment with  his  hand  on  the  rail,  as  if  her  question  made 
him  start. 

"  Why  not  stay  to  tea  ?  Because  I  have  a  round  of 
visits  to  make  before  dark,  and  don't  want  to  break 
my  neck  on  the  road.  Not  that  it  would  particularly 
matter,"  he  added,  in  a  sharp  undertone  which  had,  to 
the  listener's  ear,  a  note  of  sheer  misery  behind  it. 

"  Doctor  Eugene,  you  should  not  talk  in  that  way. 
What  would  become  of  us  if  you  broke  your  neck  on 
the  road,  I  wonder  ?" 

"  Oh,  you  would  get  a  new  doctor — a  nice,  respect- 
able young  man,  fresh  from  the  hospitals,  full  of  science 
and  without  a  single  fleck  on  his  character.  I  think 
you'd  gain  by  the  exchange,  Miss  Daunay." 

"  Miss  Daunay  !  " 

"Why  not?  as  you  said  just  now."  The  doctor 
wheeled  round  to  the  door  :  his  usually  erect  shoulders 
were  a  little  bowed  :  there  was  a  hang-dog  look  about 
him  that  made  Annabel  shudder.  "There's  a  great 
gulf  between  yon  and  me,  and  now  that  I  have  opened 
your  eyes  to  it,  there  is  no  use  in  pretending  you  don't 
see  it.  You  are  a  young  lady,  and  I — well,  you  know 
what  I  am." 


140  Daunay's  Tower. 

Annabel  sprang  forward  and  laid  her  hand  on  his 
shoulder  just  before  he  turned  the  handle  of  the  door. 
"  Doctor  Eugene,"  she  said  imperiously,  "look  at  me  !" 

"Look  at  you  ?"  he  said,  trying  to  appear  amused, 
"  why  should  I  look  at  you  ?  I  have  looked  " — he  paused 
for  a  moment — "  often  enough." 

"  Look  at  me,"  the  girl  insisted ;  "dear,  good  Doctor 
Eugene,  look  at  me — just  once." 

He  was  obliged  to  raise  his  eyes  to  hers,  but  he  com- 
plied so  slowly  that  his  reluctance  was  obvious.  At 
last,  however,  he  looked  at  her  fairly  and  squarely,  and 
the  look  told  Annabel  what  she  wanted  to  know.  The 
brilliant  eyes  were  dimmed  for  once  ;  they  were  as  sick 
and  weary  as  the  eyes  of  a  beaten  dog. 

"  What  have  I  done,"  said  Annabel,  "  that  you  should 
treat  me  in  this  way  ?  " 

"  I  ?  How  have  I  treated  you  ?  I  have  kept  away  : 
I  thought  it  best.  That  was  all." 

"  But  that  was  not  kind.  Oh,  don't  think  me  intru- 
sive and  impertinent ;  but  I  see — I  know — you  are  not 
like  yourself  :  it  makes  you  unhappy  to  think  that  you 
told  me  what  you  did." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lechmere,  after  a  little  silence,  during 
which  he  turned  away  his  eyes  again,  and  rested  one 
hand  against  the  passage  wall.  "  That  is  perhaps  what's 
wrong  with  me.  I'd  never  given  myself  away  before  in 
all  these  years,  and  it  goes  hard  with  me  now."  He 
laughed  at  the  boyishness  of  his  own  tone,  but  the 
laugh  brought  tears  to  Annabel's  eyes. 

"  How  little  you  trust  me  ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  Doctor 
Eugene,  you  should  think  better  of  me  than  to  suppose 
I  don't  honor  you  for  what  you  have  made  of  your  life 
in  the  last  twenty  years." 


On  the  Hills.  141 

"  There  are  some  things  that  cannot  be  wiped  out, 
even  in  twenty  years,"  he  said  grimly. 

"  And  you  are  sorry  you  told  me  ?  Oh,  you  are  not 
generous,  Dr.  Lechmere." 

He  drew  himself  erect  and  sighed — a  deep,  long  sigh, 
which  sounded  as  if  it  came  from  the  very  bottom  of 
his  heart. 

"  Can  you  expect  me  to  be  very  generous  ?  " 

"  I  expect  everything  that  is  good  from  you — good 
and  great." 

"Still  ?"  he  said  ;  but  there  was  a  little  more  spirit 
in  his  tone. 

"More  than  ever." 

Again  she  noticed  his  silence — so  unlike  him,  for  he 
usually  had  a  word  to  say. 

"  Have  I  seen  so  little  of  you  all  these  years  that  you 
don't  think  I  care  to  understand  you  ?  You  were  too 
high-minded  to  let  me  be  ignorant  of  the  past — a  past 
that  matters  so  little — because  you  were  afraid  I  thought 
too  well  of  you.  Dear  Doctor  Eugene,  how  can  you  be 
so  morbid  and  so — so — ridiculous  ?" 

"  You  flatter  me,  Annabel." 

Ah,  that  was  more  like  him.  The  little  touch  of 
irony,  the  use  of  her  Christian  name  !  She  had  won 
the  day,  and  she  would  not  lose  her  friend. 

"  I  won't  let  you  off,"  she  said,  putting  her  hand 
through  his  arm.  "  Come  in  to  tea,  and  I  will  play  for 
you  by  and  by.  Your  patients  can  wait :  they  were 
only  an  excuse,  Dr.  Eugene  !" 

The  pleading  voice  had  its  effect.  He  raised  his  head 
and  smiled  at  her,  with  something  of  the  old  gleam  in 
his  eyes.  But  she  felt  that  he  was  not  yet  quite  him- 
self. 


142  Daunay's  Tower. 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,  child,"  he  said  gently. 
"  I've  no  words  with  which  to  thank  you.  I  have  been 
foolishly  ashamed  during  these  last  few  days  ;  but — if 
you  have  not  lost  all  yonr  affection  for  your  old  tutor, 
as  I  still  call  myself — why,  I'll  try  to  respect  myself 
again.  It's  cold  out  on  the  fells  without  any  vanity  to 
keep  one  warm." 

He  gave  his  shoulders  a  little  shrug,  and  drew  in 
his  breath  as  if  some  painful  memory  had  recurred  to 
him.  But  the  beaten  look  was  gone  ;  he  had  gathered 
up  again  the  courage  that  so  seldom  failed  him,  and 
was  ready  to  continue  the  long  battle  of  life. 

"  No,  I  won't  stay  this  afternoon  :  I  really  have  too 
much  to  do,  but  I'll  come  to-morrow,  if  you  will  let  me. 
There's  a  new  book  about  Dante's  Inferno  that  I  want 
to  bring  you.  Have  you  heard  from  Mr.  Daunay 
again  ?" 

"  Not  since  he  left  the  Tower.  I  think  he  has  done 
with  me!" 

"  You  made  your  choice,"  said  Lechmere,  with 
a  dry  smile  on  his  lips.  "  Yon  don't  regret  it  ?  " 

"No,  indeed.  Come  early  to-morrow,  Doctor 
Eugene.  I  will  give  you  the  very  nicest  tea  you  ever 
had,  and  you  shall  hear  me  sing  all  your  favorite 
songs. " 

"  I  will  come.     You  may  depend  on  that." 

He  shook  hands  with  her  strongly  and  warmly  :  his 
face,  if  a  little  troubled  still,  had  resumed  the  expres- 
sion of  kindly  interest  and  alertness  by  which  she  knew 
it  best.  But  one  or  two  of  his  acquaintances  who  met 
him  on  the  road  wondered  why  the  doctor  looked  so 
sad. 

The  days  resumed  their  usual  course  for  Annabel. 


On  the  Hills.  143 

Jane  Arnold  grew  stronger  and  moved  about  the  house  ; 
Dr.  Lechmere  came  and  went  ;  Annabel  had  little 
duties  to  perform,  little  visits  to  pay  or  to  receive  ;  but 
not  a  word  came  from  Mr.  Daunay,  either  to  the 
Tower  or  to  the  Moorside  Farm.  He  seemed  to  have 
dropped  out  of  existence  altogether.  Miss  Arnold 
wrote  to  him  once,  seeking  to  soften  him  on  behalf 
of  Annabel  ;  but  he  did  not  reply.  And  as  the  days 
passed  on  Jane  was  driven  to  conclude,  as  Annabel  had 
done,  that  John  Daunay  had  cast  his  daughter  off 
forever. 

But  one  morning  Dr.  Lechmere  strode  up  the  garden 
path  with  a  look  of  excitement  in  his  keen,  brawn 
face. 

"  I  have  news  for  you,  Annabel,"  he  said.  ' '  Prepare 
yourself.  You  did  not  love  him,  I  know  ;  but  it  is 
always  something  of  a  shock  to  hear  of  death." 

"  My  father  ?  "  she  said  trembling. 

"  Yes,  your  father.  It  is  in  this  morning's  paper, 
but  there  has  been  no  intimation  as  yet  at  the  "house. 
Here  it  is — John  Daunay,  of  Daunay's  Tower — there 
can  be  no  mistake." 

As  he  said,  Annabel  had  not  learned  to  love  her 
father,  but  the  tears  rose  to  her  eyes  when  she  heard 
that  he  was  dead. 


144  Daunay's  Tower, 


CHAPTER  XV. 

MRS.  WYCHERLY'S    PLANS. 

JOCELYN"  DAUNAY  would  have  been  somewhat  sur- 
prised if  he  could  have  seen  into  the  heart  of  the  woman 
he  admired,  as  she  sat  in  her  prettily  shaded  bou- 
doir on  the  day  after  Lady  Branksome's  ball.  Mrs. 
Wycherly  was  tired,  and  had  resolved  to  deny  herself 
to  visitors  ;  perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why  she  felt 
so  depressed.  Now  and  then  she  pressed  a  filmy  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes  or  took  up  her  vinaigrette,  and 
when  her  maid  brought  her  a  cup  of  tea  she  scolded  her 
for  some  trifling  fault  until  the  girl  retired  in  tears. 
Then  she  tried  to  read  a  novel,  but  between  her  eyes 
and  its  pages  came  constantly  the  vision  of  a  lengthy 
paper,  closely  written  in  rows  of  items  with  prices  at- 
tached— the  very  prosaic  reality  of  her  dressmaker's 
bill,  which  had  reached  her  that  morning  with  an  ur- 
gent request  for  immediate  payment.  It  was  this 
document  which  had  upset  Mrs.  Wycherly's  nerves, 
although  she  had  told  her  maid  to  say  that  she  was 
prostrate  with  fatigue  after  last  night's  ball. 

' '  It  is  too  dreadful  of  Juliette/'  she  said  to  herself, 
"  just  when  I  wanted  something  new  and  extremely 
chic  for  Scotland.  Of  course  she  will  refuse  to  make 
me  anything  until  I  have  sent  her  a  cheque.  And 
where  on  earth  am  I  to  get  a  cheque  in  the  presnet 
condition  of  affairs  ?  I've  been  awfully  unlucky  at 
roulette,  I  shall  liavo  to  give  it  up  and  take  to  whist 


Mrs.  Wycherly's  Plans.  145 

and  sixpenny  points  in  my  old  age.  I  wonder  whether 
papa  could  give  me  anything  ?  But  he  has  done  it 
rather  often,  poor  dear,  and  I  doubt  whether  he  has 
anything  to  spare.  There  is  Reynold,  of  course  ;  but 
Reynold  has  been  stingy  lately,  and  even  talks  of  marry- 
ing !  Ay  di  mi,  what  is  a  poor  little  lorn  woman  to  do 
with  herself  in  these  degenerate  days  ?  " 

She  picked  up  a  mirror  and  inspected  her  face — 
with  especial  reference  to  the  texture  of  her  skin. 
"  I'm  not  blotchy  or  red  ;  I'm  quite  smooth  and  clear," 
she  said  to  herself.  "  I  can't  believe  that  I  am  going 
off  very  much,  in  spite  of  my  three  and  thirty  years. 
Who  would  believe  that  I  was  that  age,  I  wonder  ? 
Certainly  not  Jocelyn  Daunay — dear  boy  that  he  is  ! 
I  told  him  the  other  day  that  I  was  six  and  twenty — I 
dared  not  go 'any  higher — and  he  absolutely  believed 
me." 

"Jocelyn  Daunay  !  So  old  John  Dannay  is  a  re- 
lation of  his  !  Reynold  has  told  me  a  good  deal  about 
the  old  man's  affairs.  If  he  means  to  make  Jocelyn 
his  heir  there  would  be  nothing  imprudent  in  my 
encouraging  him.  How  charming  it  would  be  to 
encourage  a  dear,  simple-minded  fool  like  Jocelyn 
Daunay  !  I  should  grow  very  fond  of  him  if  I  tried. 
He  is  very  lovable,  very  easily  beguiled.  At  least  I 
think  so.  I  have  sometimes  surprised  a  rather  critical 
look  in  those  candid  blue  eyes  of  his.  I  fancy  that 
they  could  be  as  hard  and  cold  as  steel  if  his  mood  in- 
clined that  way.  In  the  mean  time,  I  must  keep  him 
well  in  hand  ;  and  if  I  find  that  old  John  Daunay  really 
means  to  do  anything  for  him,  I  will  hold  out  a  sisterly 
hand  and  tell  him  to  confide  in  me  all  about  hia 
affairs." 
10 


146  Daunay's  Tower. 

There  was  rather  a  cynical  look  upon  her  face,  a 
look  which  went  ill  with  the  languishing  eyes  and  soft 
curved  lips.  She  was  careful  to  banish  any  such  ex- 
pression when  she  knew  herself  to  he  observed.  But 
alone  in  her  own  boudoir,  she  could  look  exactly  as  she 
pleased. 

There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  She  frowned,  for  she 
wanted  nobody  to  enter.  Nevertheless,  a  man's  hand 
pushed  the  door  open,  and  a  man's  foot  crossed  the 
floor. 

"  Eeynold  !  "  she  cried,  and  in  spite  of  herself  a  faint 
flush  mantled  on  her  cheek.  "  Eeynold,  is  it  really 

you?" 

Keynold  Harding  was  a  tall,  strong-looking  man, 
with  a  very  handsome,  regular-featured  face  and  fine 
dark  eyes.  He  was  her  cousin — some  said  her  lover 
— and  he  was  a  very  popular  man  in  his  section  of  the 
world.  There  were  only  a  few,  here  and  there,  who 
whispered  that  his  means  of  existence  were  not  alto- 
gether reputable  ;  that  he  lived  by  the  tables,  and  that 
he  liked  the  chance  of  plucking  a  pigeon  now  and  then. 
It  was  certain  that  he  had  plenty  of  money  to  spare, 
and  was  lavish  with  it  when  he  chose.  Mrs.  Wycherly 
had  long  reaped  the  benefit  of  his  prosperity  and  liberal 
impulses.  For  many  years  he  had  continued  to  make 
her  large  gifts  of  money  and  of  jewels  ;  it  was  but 
lately  that  he  had  discontinued  them.  And  she  was 
anxious  to  know  the  reason  why.  She  did  not  love 
Reynold,  but  she  liked  his  gifts. 

"  You  don't  look  quite  yourself,"  said  Mr.  Harding, 
seating  himself  and  staring  at  her.  "  What  is  the  mat- 
ter ?  " 

"  Nothing." 


Mrs.  Wycherly's  Plans.  147 

"Nonsense.  You  don't  have  those  dark  shadows 
round  your  eyes  for  nothing.  Is  it  a  bill — or  a  lover  ?" 

"  A  bill,  I  suppose.  I  am  awfully  worried.  Juliette 
declares  that  she  won't  wait  a  day  longer,  and  I  want 
such  a  lot  of  things." 

"  Have  you  the  bill  here  ?    Hand  it  over." 

"  It's  too  much,  Reynold,  "said  Mrs.  Wycherly,  depre- 
catingly.  "  I  must  send  it  to  papa." 

"  Papa  won't  do  much  towards  paying  it,"  said  Rey- 
nold, laughing.  "  You'd  much  better  leave  it  to  me." 

"  Oh,  Reynold — if  you  would " 

"  I  don't  mind  for  once.  But,  Lenore,  I  want  you  to 
make  a  bargain  with  me.  It's  time  I  married  ;  help  me 
to  find  a  wife." 

"  A  wife  ?  "  she  echoed  blankly.  It  seemed  to  her 
the  last  thing  that  she  wanted  for  Reynold,  who 
had  always  been  so  good  to  her.  "  Have  you  seen  any 
one " 

"  Oh,  not  yet,"  he  answered  indifferently.  "  But  I 
may  do  so  any  day,  and  I  want  you  to  help  me,  not  to  set 
yourself  against  me,  whenever  it  happens.  Do  you 
understand  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,"  she  said.  But  her  heart  failed  with- 
in her.  What  should  she  do  in  the  days  to  come,  when 
her  need  would  probably  be  quite  as  great  as  it  was  now, 
if  Reynold  were  married  and  unable  to  assist  her  ?  But 
his  next  words  turned  the  current  of  her  thoughts. 

"  Have  you  heard  of  young  Daunay's  luck  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?    In  what  way  ?  " 

"  Well,  it  seems  that  a  relation  of  his  has  turned  up 
— means  to  leave  him  all  his  money,  and  that  sort  of 
thing." 

"That  is  luck,  certainly." 


148  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  They  were  talking  of  it  down  at  the  club,"  said  Rey- 
nold, carelessly.  "  The  old  man  is  just  back  from  Cum- 
berland, where  he  went,  it  seems,  to  interview  some 
other  claimant  to  the  family  estate — a  girl.  He  foams 
at  the  mouth  when  he  mentions  her.  And  it's  a  curious 
thing,  but  I  hear  that  he  talks  about  a  local  doctor  who 
is  mixed  up  with  his  affairs — a  certain  Lechmere,  and 
it  strikes  me  that  we  have  heard  of  him  before." 

"  Not  Eugene  ?     Oh,  Reynold  !  " 

"Eugene,  I  fancy.  We  always  heard  that  he  buried 
himself  in  some  queer  northern  place  after  he  came  to 
grief.  It  would  be  just  like  him  if  he  were  advocating 
the  claims  of  some  little  adventuress — hoping  to  get 
what  he  could  out  of  it." 

"  I  don't  know," said  Mrs.  Wycherly.  "There  was 
a  good  deal  of  quixotism  about  poor  Eugene." 

"  Poor  Eugene,  indeed  !  Just  let  your  father  hear  you 
call  him  '  poor  Eugene  ! " 

"  Papa  was  unjust  to  him  !  "  said  Lenore,  in  a  small, 
shaken  voice.  "  Don't  talk  to  me,  Reynold  ;  Eugene 
was  always  dear  to  me,  whatever  he  did  !  And  I  never 
could  see  that  it  was  anything  very  bad." 

"Women  have  110  conscience,"  said  Reynold,  easily. 
"  Give  me  your  bill,  and  I'll  settle  it  for  you.  But  I'm 
afraid  it  must  be  for  the  last  time,  Lenore." 

She  thought  of  Jocelyu,  and  said  nothing.  It  oc- 
cured  to  her  that  if  Jocelyn  were  Mr.  Daunay's  heir, 
she  would  not  ask  Reynold  to  pay  her  dressmaker's  bills. 
She  would  talk  to  Juliette. 

She  fully  expected  Jocelyn  to  call  on  her.  But  day 
after  day  passed  by,  and  still  he  did  not  come.  The  fact 
was  that  he  had  other  things  to  think  of,  and  was  some- 
what oblivious  of  herself. 


Mrs.  Wycherly's  Plans.  149 

He  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  Mr.  Dan  nay  during  those 
last  hot  days  of  July,  before  all  London  fled  from  the 
dusty  town-to  cool  itself  on  Scottish  moors  and  snowy 
Alpine  heights.  And  Mr.  Daunay  had  taken  him  ab- 
solutely by  surprise.  The  old  man  had  gone  to  Cum- 
berland, and  had  returned  ;  and  when  he  sent  for 
Jocelyn  soon  afterwards,  the  young  man  was  struck  by 
something  new  in  his  face  and  rnien — something  somber, 
sinister,  almost  tragic  in  its  gloom. 

"I  hope  there  is  nothing  wrong,  sir,"  he  said,  im- 
pulsively. 

"  What  should  be  wrong  ?  "  asked  Mr.  Daunay. 
Then  he  walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  Joce- 
lyn noticed  that  he  wore  a  band  of  crape  upon  his  arm. 
"  Yes,  there  is  something  wrong,"  he  said,  after  a  lit- 
tle pause.  "  I  spoke  to  you  of  my  daughter — the 
daughter  whom  I  went  to  see." 

"  Yes,  sir  ?  " 

"She  is  dead,"  said  Mr.  Daunay,  with  almost  a  sul- 
len air,  which  Jocelyn  put  down  to  affliction. 

"Dead?" 

It  gave  him  a  shock  to  hear  the  word  spoken  of  the 
cousin  whom  he  had  never  seen.  But  no  doubt  of  Mr. 
Daumiy's  good  faith  crossed  his  mind.  He  was  sin- 
cerely grieved. 

"  I  am  very  sorry.     Surely  it  was  sudden  ?  " 

"Yes,  it  was  sudden.  We  need  not  talk  about  it. 
Remember  you  are  my  sole  heir  now,  and  I  won't  for- 
get your  sister,  either." 

"  Please  don't  talk  of  that,"  said  Jocelyn,  rather 
shocked  and  startled  by  the  introduction  of  this  sub- 
ject at  such  a  time.  But  Mr.  Daunay  only  stared  at 
him  with  shrewd,  twinkling  eyes,  as  if  he  did  not 


150  Daunay's  Tower. 

believe  in  the  young  man's  indisposition  to  speak  of 
money. 

"  You'll  have  Daunay's  Tower  after  all,"  he  said, 
jingling  some  loose  money  in  his  pocket,  and  beginning 
to  walk  up  and  down  the  room.  "  You'll  go  there 
sometimes,  I  hope,  and  keep  the  place  up.  I've  never 
done  much  for  the  village  ;  perhaps  you'll  do  more." 

"You  have  plenty  of  time  to  do  what  you  like  for  it 
now,  sir.  You  spoke  of  going  there  this  autumn,  and 
for  many  a  year." 

"No,  no."  Mr.  Daunay  spoke  with  increasing 
gloom  and  surliness.  "  I  shall  never  set  foot  in 
Dauuay's  Tower  again." 

Jocelyn  tried  to  laugh  him  out  of  his  conviction,  but 
without  result,  and  found  it  best  in  time  to  drop  the 
subject.  He  felt  rather  uneasy  about  the  old  man,  yet 
there  seemed  nothing  definite  the  matter  with  him  ;  it 
was  only  that  he  was  depressed,  irritable,  and  alto- 
gether out  of  sorts.  But  he  spoke  constantly  of  High 
Eigg  and  Daunay's  Tower,  leaving  the  impression  upon 
Jocelyn's  mind  that  these  places  were  seldom  out  of  his 
thoughts. 

One  morning,  early  in  August,  Mr.  Daunay's  man 
came  round  to  Jocelyn's  flat  in  great  perturbation. 
His  master  had  had  a  fit,  he  said  ;  at  least  he  had  found 
him  lying  insensible  on  the  floor  of  his  bedroom,  and 
did  not  know  what  else  it  could  be.  He  had  sent  for 
the  doctor  and  begged  Mr.  Jocelyn  to  come  at  once. 

Jocelyn  hastened  to  the  smart  little  house  which  Mr. 
Dan  nay  had  rented — the  place  where  he  had  once  in- 
tended to  install  his  daughter  Annabel.  He  saw  the 
doctor,  and  sat  for  some  time  at  the  old  man's  bedside. 
But  there  was  nothing  to  be  done.  All  the  resources  of 


Mrs.  Wycherly's  Plans.  151 

medical  science  were  at  hand,  but  were  utterly  un- 
availing. 

"  There  may  be  a  partial  recovery  of  consciousness," 
the  doctor  said,  "  but  it  will  be  but  the  nicker  in  the 
socket.  It  would  be  well,  however,  if  some  one  whom 
he  knew  could  be  with  him  at  the  last.  Has  he  any 
relations  ?  " 

"  As  far  as  I  know,  only  myself  and  my  sister.  TVe 
will  stay  with  him — one  or  other  of  us — to  the  end/' 

"  That  is  well.  If  he  has  any  last  instructions  to 
give — any  testamentary  dispositions  to  make " 

"As  far  as  I  know,"  said  Jocelyn,  again,  "  he  has 
settled  all  these  matters." 

The  doctor  bowed.  He  knew  what  the  world  had 
lately  been  saying  of  Mr.  Daunay  and  Jocelyn. 

So  it  came  about  that  Edith  and  her  brother  watched 
night  and  day  beside  John  Daunay's  dying  bed. 

Jocelyn  was  alone  with  him  when  that  last  nicker  of 
expiring  life  made  itself  visible.  It  was  the  hour  of 
dawn,  and  a  pale  gray  gleam  of  light  stole  into  the 
room,  making  the  watchers'  faces  almost  as  ghastly  as 
that  of  the  dying  man,  when  Mr.  Daunay  opened  his 
eyes  and  tried  to  speak.  His  utterance  was  feeble  and 
rather  thick,  but  he  made  himself  understood. 

•<  Jocelyn  ?  " 

"  I  am  here,  sir.     Do  you  want  anything  ?  " 

The  dying  man  nodded  at  him.  "  Youll  sec  that 
everything's  right  ?  "  he  said  with  glazing  eyes. 

"  Yes,  sir,  everything." 

"  Daunay's  Tower " 

"  Yes  ;  I  will  do  all  you  wished,  Uncle  John."  Mr. 
Daunay  had  told  him  that  it  was  in  this  way  he  wished 
to  be  addressed. 


1 52  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  And — and — Annabel " 

His  tongue  failed  him;  he  could  say  no  more. 
"Annabel/' he  murmured  indistinctly,  "Annabel" — 
and  that  was  all.  There  seemed  to  be  an  entreaty  in 
his  eyes  which  Jocelyn  could  not  understand. 

"  Yes,  sir,  Annabel,"  he  said  soothingly,  not  know- 
ing in  the  least  what  the  old  man  meant. 

And  then  John  Dauuay  died. 


Retrospective.  153 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

RETROSPECTIVE. 

"  WELL,  what  does  the  lawyer  say  ? "  asked  Dr. 
Lechmere,  as  he  walked  into  the  little  room  where  Jane 
Arnold  reclined  in  an  easy-chair  with  an  appearance  of 
weakness  and  weariness  which  sat  strangely  upon  her 
usually  energetic  personality.  She  had  been  ailing  for 
some  time,  and  Dr.  Lechmere  thought  less  hopefully  of 
her  than  he  liked  Annabel  to  know  ;  the  disease  of  the 
heart  which  had  troubled  her  for  so  long  had  lately  de- 
veloped with  alarming  rapidity,  and  the  doctor  foresaw 
a  period  when  Annabel  would  most  likely,  and  at  no 
distant  day,  be  forced  to  face  the  world  alone. 

This  fact,  together  with  his  real  regard  for  the 
woman  who  had  shown  him  kindliness  when  he  was  in  a 
peculiarly  lonely  position,  caused  him  to  attend  her  with 
the  greatest  care  and  regularity.  He  usually  visited 
Moorside  Farm  once  every  day,  and  always  impressed 
upon  Annabel  that  she  was  to  send  for  him  if  her  aunt 
seemed  worse. 

"You  know  I  don't  mind  distances,"  he  said,  with  a 
smile,  when  Annabel  looked  a  little  alarmed  at  this  re- 
mark, "  and  I  would  rather  come  up  to  Cross  Rigg 
than  know  that  your  aunt  was  suffering  pain  that  I 
might  perhaps  alleviate." 

So  Annabel  promised  to  have  no  hesitation  in  sending 
for  him  if  necessary  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or  night, 


154  Daunay's  Tower. 

but  at  present  there  seemed  no  need  for  her  to  do  so, 
as  the  doctor  was  unremitting  in  his  attentions.  He 
had  other  reasons  for  wishing  to  see  Miss  Arnold  as 
often  as  possible,  for  there  had  arisen  a  curious  diffi- 
culty with  respect  to  Annabel's  position  after  Mr. 
Daunay's  death.  As  no  intimation  of  his  decease  had 
been  sent  to  Moorside  Farm,  Miss  Arnold  had,  at 
Lechmere's  advice,  written  to  Mr.  Daunay's  solicitors, 
whose  name  and  address  the  doctor  himself  had  been 
careful  to  ascertain.  Some  days  elapsed  before  the  re- 
ply came,  and  Dr.  Lechmere  was  naturally  interested 
to  know  what  its  tone  would  be. 

"  I  heard  this  morning,"  Miss  Arnold  said,  "  but  how 
did  you  know  ?  " 

"I  met  Annabel,"  said  the  doctor,  easily.  He  had 
begun  not  to  be  able  to  pronounce  her  name  very 
steadily,  but  he  tried  not  to  flinch  when  Jane  Arnold's 
observant  eyes  were  upon  him.  "  She  was  walking  down 
to  High  Rigg.  You  did  not  tell  her  what  was  in  the 
letter,  she  said." 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Arnold,  deliberately.  "  I  thought 
I  would  like  to  speak  to  yourself  first,  doctor.  I  have 
been  all  in  a  tremble  ever  since  I  read  the  letter.  I 
never  thought  that  John  Daunay  would  have  acted  so 
by  Betha's  child." 

"I  should  have  thought  he  was  capable  of  anything," 
said  Dr.  Lechmere,  remembering  his  last  interview  with 
the  old  man. 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  it,"  said  Jane  Arnold, 
her  lip  trembling.  "  You  know,  he  was  like  a  brother 
to  me  when  we  were  young  ;  I  was  his  foster-sister,  and 
many's  the  time  we've  played  together  about  the  farm, 
or  in  the  garden  down  at  Daunay's  Tower.  Even  when 


Retrospective.  155 

he  ran  off  with  Betha — and  me  never  suspecting  whom 
she'd  gone  with  for  years  and  years — I  thought  he 
meant  to  deal  well  with  her,  but  now  there's  no  know- 
ing what  to  say/' 

"What's  the  matter?"  said  the  doctor,  briefly,  his 
grasp  tightening  on  the  arm  of  the  wooden  armchair  as 
he  spoke. 

"  You  can  see  the  letter,"  said  Jane.  She  handed 
him  the  official-looking  communication  from  the  firm 
of  Messrs.  Clissold,  Glover  &  Co.,  in  which  it  was  stated 
in  a  clerkly  hand  that  the  firm  were  not  aware  that  Mr. 
Daunay  had  ever  contracted  a  legal  marriage,  and  that 
there  was  no  legitimate  offspring  ;  the  estate  and  per- 
sonal property  of  their  late  client  would  therefore  pass 
to  the  next  of  kin,  Mr.  Jocelyn  Daunay. 

Dr.  Lechrnere  threw  down  the  letter  with  an  exclama- 
tion of  mingled  surprise  and  disgust. 

"  So  that's  his  revenge,"  he  said  quietly. 

Jane  Arnold  looked  at  him  with  a  bewildered  expres- 
sion. "  Revenge,  doctor  ?  "  she  said.  "  Why  should 
he  want  to  revenge  himself  on  Annabel,  poor  lamb  ? 
She's  never  done  him  any  harm." 

"  She  has  thwarted  his  plans,"  said  the  doctor,  "  which 
is  the  greatest  harm  any  one  can  do  to  a  man  of  his  stamp. 
Well,  we  shall  have  to  prove  the  marriage,  that  is  all. 
Where  did  it  take  place  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Miss  Arnold,  helplessly. 

The  doctor's  mobile  eyebrows  went  up  almost  to  his 
hair. 

"  You  don't  know  ?  "  he  repeated. 

"  How  should  I  know  ?  "  said  Jane,  with  something 
like  passion  in  her  tone.  "We've  not  spoken  of  this 
matter,  Dr.  Lechmere,  for  years  and  years  ;  but  I  should 


156  Daunay's  Tower. 

like  to  tell  you  now,  or  to  remind  you  if  you  know  al- 
ready, how  things  really  stood." 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  hear ;  the  whole  story  was  always 
a  mystery  to  me.  Mr.  Daunay  invariably  spoke  of  your 
sister  as  his  wife." 

"  She  was  his  wife,"  said  Jane,  lifting  her  hands  and 
letting  them  fall  again  in  a  gesture  naturally  expressive 
of  her  agitated  feelings.  "  She  told  me  she  was,  poor 
soul,  and  Daunay  himself  repeated  it.  There  has  never 
been  a  single  doubt  in  my  mind  that  Betha  was  his 
wife.  She  was  a  good,  sweet  girl,  and  knew  right  from 
wrong,  Dr.  Lechmere,  and  she  would  never  have  gone 
away  with  him  if  he  had  not  married  her/' 

Eugene  Lechmere  nodded.  "  Betha  might  have 
been  a  good  woman,"  he  reflected,  "  and  yet  be  shame- 
fully deceived ;  there  was  no  knowing  exactly  what 
John  Daunay  might  not  have  done." 

"  Betha  was  years  younger  than  me,"  Jane  Arnold 
went  on,  in  a  monotonous  narrative  tone,  "  and  I  was 
like  a  mother  to  her.  I  brought  her  up,  as  you  may 
say,  after  our  mother  died.  Father  was  living  then, 
and  farmed  the  land,  but  he  was  always  busy,  and  didn't 
trouble  himself  over  much  about  Betha  or  me.  It 
seemed  quite  natural  then  that  John  Daunay  should  be 
in  and  out  a  good  bit.  He  was  a  heavy,  loutish  sort  of 
young  fellow,  that  wouldn't  go  to  college  or  take  his 
proper  place  among  the  gentry  of  the  neighborhood. 
He  was  all  for  grooms  and  dog-fanciers,  and  people  of 
that  sort ;  he  used  to  say  he  wished  he  had  been  born 
a  working-man." 

"  I  could  well  imagine  that/'  said  Lechmere,  sar- 
donically. 

"  It  was  natural,"  said  Jane,  at  once  ;  and  Dr.  Lech- 


Retrospective.  157 

mere  noticed  that  she  was  ready  to  take  up  the  cudgels 
in  defense,  as  far  as  possible,  of  her  foster-brother. 
"  Old  Mr.  Daunay,  John's  father,  I  mean,  was  a  queer, 
eccentric  sort  of  man,  who  wouldn't  be  bothered  to 
spend  money  on  his  son's  education  :  so  different  from 
that  other  branch  of  the  family  that  you  may  have 
heard  of,  sir — Alfred  Daunay,  who  married  Lady  Mary 
Jocelyn,  and  was  all  for  books  and  pictures,  and  things 
of  that  kind." 

"The  father  and  mother  of  this  Jocelyn  Daunay,  I 
suppose — the  man  whom  Mr.  Daunay  wanted  Annabel 
to  marry  ?" 

"  Yes,  that's  it :  as  different  as  light  from  darkness 
or  chalk  from  cheese,  as  the  saying  is  ;  and  Mr.  Daunay 
was  always  jibing  at  his  brother  and  his  brother's  son, 
and  saying  that  he  would  never  come  to  any  good,  and 
that  his  boy  was  to  be  brought  up  out  of  doors  and  know 
all  about  sport  and  things  that  befitted  an  English 
gentleman." 

"  Fine  specimen  of  an  English  country  gentleman  !  " 
ejaculated  Dr.  Lechmere,  with  an  angry  flash  of  his 
hazel  eyes. 

"  Well,"  said  Jane,  patiently,  "  Mr.  John  turned  out 
differently.  He  took  to  making  money,  that  was  the 
queer  thing,  instead  of  books  or  sport.  He  used  to  say 
that  Daunay's  Tower  was  all  very  well,  but  he  was  not 
going  to  spend  his  whole  life  in  a  hole  and  corner  when 
there  was  so  much  to  be  got  out  of  the  world.  *  I  shall 
come  back  rich  some  day,'  he  used  to  say  to  me  ;  '  and 
then  you  will  see  what  sort  of  a  place  I'll  make  of 
Daunay's  Tower/* 

"  I  almost  wonder  he  ever  came  back,"  said  the 
doctor,  impatiently  :  "probably  his  marriage  and  your 


158  Daunay's  Tower. 

sister's  death  had  something  to  do  with  keeping  him 
away." 

"  I  had  no  idea  that  he  was  thinking  of  Betha,"  said 
Jane.  "  She  was  a  beautiful  girl,  you  know,  doctor  ; 
though  I  sometimes  think  that  Annabel  is  even  prettier. 
But  Betha  was  rosier  than  Annabel,  and  had  more  of  a 
lively  way  with  her.  She  was  not  so  stand-offish  as 
Annabel  is  sometimes.  She  would  laugh  and  talk  with 
any  one ;  so  I  never  thought  anything  of  it  that  she 
should  laugh  and  talk  with  young  Mr.  Daunay  as  much 
as  anybody  else/' 

"  A  romping,  red-cheeked  milkmaid,  I  should  fancy," 
said  the  doctor  to  himself,  but  he  was  careful  not  to  put 
his  reflections  into  words.  "  Well,"  he  said  curtly, 
"  get  on  with  your  story,  Miss  Arnold.  Annabel  will 
be  back  before  long,  and  I  should  like  to  hear  the  whole 
of  it  before  I  go." 

"  I'm  keeping  you,  I  doubt,"  said  Jane  with  a  sigh, 
"  but  I  should  like  to  tell  you  about  it,  if  you  don't 
mind,  for  I  have  sometimes  thought  it  a  pity  that  no- 
body knew  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  story  but  myself. 
Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Betha  was  very  much  admired 
and  courted  by  all  the  young  men  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  I  am  sure  I  never  knew  which  she  really  preferred. 
It  is  five  and  twenty  years  ago  this  very  summer  that 
she  made  up  her  mind,  but  I  dare  say  he  made  her 
promise  not  to  tell  me  he  had  won  her  heart  after  all. 
I  came  down  early  one  morning  to  find  a  letter  lying 
on  the  table  in  this  very  room,  and  Betha — gone." 

"  She  had  run  away  with  John  Daunay,  I  suppose  ?" 

ee  That's  what  she'd  done,  doctor  ;  but  I  did  not 
know  it  at  the  time,  and  I  never  suspected  him.  He 
was  about  my  own  age,  or  a  little  younger,  and  I  was 


Retrospective.  159 

getting  on  for  forty.  Betha  was  eighteen  years  yonnger 
than  myself,  so  you  see  she  was  free  to  do  what  she 
chose ;  there  was  no  reason  that  1  could  see,  why  she 
could  not  have  walked  out  of  the  house  and  been  mar- 
ried in  the  parish  church  before  the  eyes  of  the  world  ; 
there  was  nobody  to  interfere  with  her  ;  old  Mr.  Dau- 
nay  was  dead,  and  so  was  my  father  by  that  time,  and 
there  was  only  me  to  make  any  objection." 

"That  looks  bad,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere.  "He  must 
have  had  a  reason  for  not  wanting  the  marriage  cere- 
mony to  be  publicly  performed/' 

"Perhaps  so,"  said  Jane  Arnold.  "I  have  some- 
times thought  that,  as  he  was  getting  on  in  the  world 
just  then — for  he  had  already  begun  to  make  money, 
as  I'd  heard,  with  mines  and  shares  and  things  of  that 
kind — he  didn't  care  to  let  it  be  known  that  he  had 
married  one  of  his  old  tenant's  daughters  ;  he  meant  to 
take  her  away  with  him  somewhere  and  bring  her  back, 
dressed  up  and  educated  so  that  nobody  should  know 
where  she  came  from  and  throw  her  family  in  her  face." 

"  That's  possible,"  said  the  doctor.  "  But  what  did 
she  say  in  her  letter  ?  " 

"  Very  little.  Only  that  she  was  going  away  to  be 
married  to  the  man  she  loved,  and  that  I  should  never 
be  able  to  guess  who  it  was,  but  she  would  write  and 
let  me  know  in  course  of  time  :  and  then  I  heard  DO 
more  of  her  for  five  long  years,  until  you  summoned  me 
to  Dannay's  Tower,  eighteen  years  ago,  doctor,  and  put 
Betha's  child  into  my  arms.  And  I  never  saw  her 
until  I  looked  at  her  dead  face  three  days  later  in  the 
coffin  where  they  had  laid  her  at  Daunay's  Tower.  Why 
Daunay  brought  her  home  to  die,  and  why  he 
kept  her  death  such  a  mystery  and  buried  her,  as  you 


i5o  Daunay's  Tower. 

know,  at  midnight  in  that  little  churchyard  on  the  hill, 
is  more  than  ever  I  have  been  able  to  understand. 

"  You  may  know  more  than  I  do,  for  you  were  with 
her  when  she  died  :  it  was  only  then  I  learned  the  name 
of  the  man  who  had  taken  her  away  from  me,  and  I'll 
do  John  Daunay  the  justice  to  say  that  he  spoke  of  her 
as  his  wife." 

"And  that  is  all  you  know  ?"  said  the  doctor.  "To 
tell  the  truth,  I  never  thought  of  doubting  that  you 
knew  all  about  the  marriage  and  were  completely  in 
Mr.  Daunay's  confidence.  He  seemed  to  have  a  respect 
for  you  which  he  did  not  show  to  many  people." 

"  We  had  always  been  friends  when  we  were  young," 
said  Jane  Arnold,  dreamily.  And  Dr.  Lechmere  found 
himself  wondering  whether  she  had  at  one  time  a  softer 
feeling  towards  John  Daunay  than  she  now  acknowl- 
edged even  to  herself.  "  But  he  treated  us  badly  one 
and  all ;  he  wronged  me  by  keeping  my  sister  from  me 
— Betha  was  only  my  stepsister,  but  I  loved  her  as 
truly  as  if  she  had  been  all  my  own  ;  and  he  wronged 
Annabel  by  the  way  that  he  neglected  her  and  left  her 
in  poverty  ;  and  now  it  seems  as  if  the  lawyers  want  to 
prove  that  he  wronged  Betha  most  of  all." 

"  It's  a  complete  tangle,"  said  the  doctor  in  a  dis- 
mayed tone  ;  "  and  I  assure  you  that  I  know  far  less 
than  yourself.  I  have  often  wanted  to  tell  you  the 
depth  of  my  ignorance,  but  I  have  not  liked  to  open 
the  subject." 

He  paused  and  bit  his  lip,  recalling  with  shame  the 
brutalit}'  which  he  knew  he  had  shown  in  those  bygone 
reckless  days  when  he  announced  to  Jane  Arnold  the 
fact  of  her  sister's  death.  He  had  not  been  in  the  mood 
then  to  believe  in  anybody's  affection  or  anybody's 


Retrospective.  161 

purity.  It  had  seemed  to  him  a  matter  of  little  conse- 
quence whether  Betha  was  John  Daunay's  wife  or  not 
— certainly  not  of  importance  to  the  hard-featured 
homely  woman  to  whom  he  had  been  instructed  to 
carry  Betha's  child,  whether  her  sister  were  alive  or 
dead. 

"  Betha,  oh,  Betha's  dead,"  he  had  said  to  her  ;  and 
the  memory  of  his  own  worst  mood  had  always  sealed 
his  lips  with  regard  to  that  unfortunate  moment  in  the 
better  days  which  had  come  to  him  ;  he  could  only  hope 
most  fervently  that  Jane  Arnold  had  forgotten  what  he 
said. 

She  had  at  any  rate  never  reminded  him  of  it  ;  she 
had  several  times  expressed  her  gratitude  to  him  for  the 
kindly  mood  in  which  he  had  made  it  possible  for  her 
to  look  once  more  on  her  dead  sister's  face.  She  had 
attached  a  disproportionate  value,  he  said,  to  the  serv- 
ice that  he  had  done  her  :  it  had  made  her  his  friend, 
and  her  friendship  had  very  often  filled  his  heart  with 
remorse. 

She  looked  up  at  him  anxiously.  "  I  used  to  say," 
she  said  in  a  troubled  voice,  "  that  it  was  useless  to 
waste  words,  and  that  the  least  said  was  soonest 
mended  ;  but  I  begin  to  think  that  maybe  we  have  held 
our  tongues  too  long:  if  we  had  been  less  silent  it 
would  have  been  easier  to  arrange  the  child's  affairs 
now.  I  have  taken  it  for  granted  all  these  years  that 
you  could  tell  me  a  good  deal  if  you  chose  to  speak." 

"  As  it  happens,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  can  tell  you 
uncommonly  little.  I  do  not  even  know  the  day  when 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Daunay  arrived  at  the  Tower.  I  was  not 
called  in  until — as  I  was  told — the  baby  was  three 
days  old  ;  they  had  had  a  doctor  from  Carlisle." 
ii 


1 62  Daunay's  Tower. 

Jane's  face  expressed  utter  astonishment.  "  I 
thought  you  were  there  from  the  beginning,"  she 
faltered. 

"  Not  I.  Mr.  Daunay  must  have  had  some  reason  for 
wishing  to  keep  a  local  practitioner  out  of  the  way. 
Evidently  he  did  not  want  any  one  in  the  neighborhood 
to  know  that  his  wife  was  there,  or  that  the  child  had 
been  born  at  Daunay's  Tower.  He  told  me  that  they 
were  on  their  way  to  Scotland  from  Wales,  and  had 
not  intended  to  stay  more  than  one  night  at  his  old 
home.  She  was  probably  taken  ill  unexpectedly,  and 
he  chose  to  send  for  a  nurse  and  a  doctor  from  the 
nearest  big  town.  He  certainly  did  not  spare  pains  and 
expense  on  the  occasion.  The  doctor  from  Carlisle 
stayed  in  the  house  for  three  clays  and  nights,  and  then, 
as  everything  seemed  to  be  going  well,  returned  to  his 
own  home  after  handing  over  the  case  to  me.  I  only 
saw  your  sister  once — alive  ;  she  died  of  collapse  ashort 
time  after  the  Carlisle  man  had  left  the  house.  John 
Daunay  bound  me  down  to  secrecy  about  the  whole 
matter  as  far  as  the  immediate  neighborhood  was  con- 
cerned. He  said  that  he  did  not  want  his  affairs  talked 
about." 

Dr.  Lechmere  did  not  add  that  he  had  then  firmly 
believed  that  Betha  was  not  John  Daunay's  wife  at  all, 
and  had  thought  it  quite  natural  for  the  owner  of 
Daunay's  Tower  to  desire  silence  on  the  subject  of  her 
life  and  death.  It  was  only  when  he  had  grown  to 
know  Jane  Arnold  and  John  Daunay  better  that  he  had 
come  to  a  very  different  conclusion,  and  he  was  bitterly 
ashamed  of  the  fact  that  he  had  accepted  a  large  sum 
of  money  from  John  Daunay,  which  had  been  called  a 
fee,  but  which  he  knew  very  well  had  been  simply  a 


Retrospective.  163 

bribe  to  induce  him  to  hold  his  tongue.  The  matter 
seemed  clear  enough  now ;  but  at  the  time  it  had  all 
been  wrapped  in  a  veil  of  obscurity  which  was  difficult, 
indeed,  to  penetrate. 

"  Mr.  Daunay  did  not  take  me  into  his  confidence  in 
any  way,"  he  said;  "or,  at  least,  not  more  than  he 
could  possibly  help.  He  sent  me,  as  you  know,  to  tell 
you  to  come  to  the  Tower,  and  it  was  then  that  I  placed 
your  sister's  child  in  your  arms  ;  but  I  knew  very  little 
of  the  true  state  of  affairs." 

"  It  was  a  wild  night,"  Jane  Arnold  murmured,  "  and 
I  had  no  idea  what  I  was  coming  for.  I  remember  how 
I  toiled  back  through  that  wind  and  rain  with  the  baby 
in  my  arms,  wondering  whether  it  was  indeed  my 
Betha's  child,  and  when  they  would  send  for  it  to  take 
it  away." 

"  It  is  a  long  time  since  then,"  said  Eugene  Lechmere, 
with  something  between  a  smile  and  a  sigh. 

"  A  long  time  indeed.  I  never  thought  to  have  An- 
nabel with  me  for  eighteen  years.  Things  have  turned 
out  a  bit  different  from  what  we  expected/' 

"  Things  always  do,"  replied  the  doctor,  brusquely. 
"  All  I  can  say  is,  Miss  Arnold,  that  the  affair  has  taken 
a  very  extraordinary  turn.  Mr.  Daunay  invariably 
spoke  of  your  sister  as  his  wife,  and  of  Annabel  as  his 
legitimate  daughter.  I  should  think  that  in  time  the 
solicitors  will  find  papers  relating  to  his  marriage 
amongst  Mr.  Daunay's  effects  ;  and  if  these  matters 
should  be  cleared  up  (unless  there  is  a  will  to  the  con- 
trary), Annabel  will  inherit  the  estate,  or  such  part  of 
it  as  comes  by  law  to  a  daughter  when  a  man  dies  in- 
testate. But  it  seems  to  me  a  very  odd  thing  if  Mr. 
Duu nay  died  without  making  a  will." 


164  Daunay's  Tower. 

"If  he  had  made  one  lately,"  said  Jane,  "he  would 
have  left  everything  to  this  Jocelyn  Daunay,  and  noth- 
ing to  Annabel  at  all." 

"  We  shall  know  all  about  that  in  time,"  said  the 
doctor,  rising  and  taking  up  his  hat.  "  Shall  I  write 
to  the  firm  for  you  ?  Now  that  I  know  the  facts,  I 
could  tell  them  to  look  for  the  marriage  certificate,  and 
assure  them  that  I  have  heard  Mr.  Daunay  speak  before 
witnesses  of  his  daughter  and  his  wife." 

"  Yes,  do,  doctor,"  said  Jane  eagerly.  "  They  will 
pay  more  attention  to  you  than  they  would  to  me." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Eugene,  knowing 
very  well  that  Messrs.  Clissold,  Glover  &  Co.  would  not 
fail  to  recognize  his  name. 

"And  then  there  is  the  doctor  in  Carlisle,"  Jane 
contended.  "  He  might  know  something  about  the 
matter." 

"  Too  late,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere.  "  He  died  ten 
years  ago." 

"  And  the  nurse  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  her.  I  asked  about  her  once, 
for  she  was  a  capital  nurse.  But  they  told  me  she  had 
completely  disappeared.  We  must  do  our  best,  but  it 
seems  to  me  more  than  likely  that  John  Daunay  has 
deliberately  destroyed  all  proof  of  his  marriage  in  order 
to  get  rid  of  the  claims  of  Annabel." 


Mr.  Clissold's  Opinion.  165 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
MR.  CLISSOLD'S   OPINION. 

"  THE  claimant  to  the  estate  ?  "  said  Jocelyn,  incred- 
ulously. "  But  there  can't  be  one,  you  know.  I 
know  all  the  ins  and  outs  of  the  family  ;  Mr.  Daunay 
himself  impressed  that  upon  me,  and  I  am  quite  sure 
there  is  no  other  relation  but  my  sister  and  myself  in 
the  world." 

"  They  say  there  is  a  daughter/'  said  Mr.  Clissold, 
wrinkling  his  brows  over  a  letter  which  lay  on  the  desk 
before  him. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  all  about  that,"  said  Jocelyn; 
"there  was  a  daughter,  you  mean.  She  lived  in 
Cumberland — at  Daunay's  Tower,  I  suppose  " — a  little 
doubtfully.  It  occurred  to  him  that  he  had  never  in- 
quired where  Mr.  Daunay's  daughter  lived. 

"  No,  excuse  me,  she  didn't,"  said  the  solicitor.  He 
was  a  dry-looking  little  man,  with  sparse  gray  hair,  and 
innumerable  small  wrinkles  upon  his  little  face,  which 
gave  him  the  appearance  of  immeasurable  age.  He 
was  not  so  very  old,  after  all,  but  he  was  the  head  of 
the  firm,  and  had  known  all  the  business  affairs  of 
his  clients  for  the  last  fifty  years.  His  memory  was  as 
good  as  ever,  and  his  wits  were  extremely  keen.  More- 
over he  was  a  man  of  known  probity,  and  Jocelyn  had 
been  instructed  by  Mr.  Daunay  that  his  affairs  would  be 
perfectly  safe  in  Mr.  Clissold's  hands.  He  was  im- 
maculately dressed  in  black,  and  wore  his  most  pro- 


1 66  Daunay's  Tower. 

fessional  air.  "  I  am  well  acquainted/'  the  lawyer 
went  on  slowly,  "  with  all  the  arrangements  of 
Daunay's  Tower.  The  late  Mr.  Daunay  placed  me  in 
communication  with  the  person  who  acts  as  its  care- 
taker, and  I  can  assure  you  that  the  house  has  not 
been  inhabited  for  very  nearly  five  and  twenty  years. 
Mr.  Daunay  has,  no  doubt,  paid  one  or  two  visits  of  a 
day  or  a  couple  of  days  at  a  time  " — Mr.  Clissold  was 
in  complete  ignorance  of  the  fact  that  John  Daunay 
had  spent  at  least  a  week  at  the  Tower  some  eighteen 
years  before  the  date  of  his  death — "  but  at  no  time 
has  he  made  it  a  place  of  permanent  abode  for  himself 
or  any  member  of  his  family.  Naturally,  I  need  hardly 
say,  if  there  had  been  a  daughter  residing  at  the  old 
family  mansion,  I  should  have  been  made  aware  of  her 
existence. " 

Mr.  Clissold  smiled  as  he  spoke,  and  rapped  his  pen- 
cil lightly  on  the  table.  He  did  not  quite  understand 
why  Jocelyn  should  seem  so  flurried  and  perplexed. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  young  man,  "that  you  are 
right.  Of  course,  yon  must  be  right "  (observing  the 
expression  of  extreme  astonishment  upon  Mr.  Clissold's 
face).  "  But  you  don't  think  there  could  have  been  a 
daughter  in  the  care  of  this  housekeeper,  or  whatever 
she  was,  at  Daunay's  Tower  without  your  knowing  that 
she  was  there  ?  " 

"  Have  I  not  just  said  that  it  would  be  quite  impos- 
sible ?  "  said  the  lawyer,  with  some  asperity.  "  You 
forget,  my  dear  sir,  that  all  disbursements  of  money 
for  the  house  and  estate,  for  repairs,  for  the  mainte- 
nance even  of  the  housekeeper,  have  been  in  my  hands 
for  the  last  twenty  years.  It  is  not  to  be  conceived  as 
possible  that  there  could  be  any  one  at  Daunay's  Tower 


Mr.  Clissold's  Opinion.  167 

of  whose  existence  I  should  not  be  aware  ;  and,  by  the 
\v;iy." — chuckling  softly  to  himself — "  your  theory  could 
scarcely  hold  water,  because  the  caretaker  happens  to 
be  a  man.  Not  a  very  likely  person  to  have  the  care 
of  a  young  lady,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  thought,"  said  Jocelyn,  "  that  there  might  be 
an  old  family  servant,  an  old  housekeeper,  who  had 
been  entrusted  with  the  care  of  the  child." 

"  No  such  thing,  no  such  thing,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"  Mr.  Daunay  left  the  place  simply  to  the  care  of  old 
Morrison — James  Morrison — who  has  been  in  the  family 
since  he  was  a  boy.  And  James  Morrison  has  been 
allowed  to  have  everything  very  much  his  own  way.  It 
is  my  belief,  Mr.  Jocelyn,  that  yon  will  find  the  place 
going  to  pieces,  and  that  a  very  large  sum  of  money 
will  have  to  be  spent  if  you  wish  to  put  it  into  thorough 
repair." 

"I  am  very  curious  to  see  it,"  said  Jocelyn.  "  My 
uncle,  Mr.  Daunay,  spoke  about  it  a  good  deal.  It  was 
curious  that  he  visited  it  so  little,  seeing  that  he  evi- 
dently had  a  great  attachment  to  it." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Mr.  Clissold  ;  "but  these  old  attach- 
ments get  eliminated  in  real  life.  One  has  not  always 
time  to  look  up  the  homes  of  one's  ancestors.  You 
know,  poor  John  Daunay  was  ageing — ageing  very  fast ; 
and  age  inclines  us,  as  you  will  know  in  the  course  of 
time,  to  think  of  one's  childhood  and  one's  home. 
Perhaps  Mr.  Daunay  intended  to  spend  the  last  years 
of  his  life  in  Cumberland." 

"  Not  entirely,"  said  Jocelyn.  "  He  talked  of  going 
there  for  two  or  three  months  every  summer.  But  I 
must  tell  you,  Mr.  Clissold,  that  he  spoke  to  me  re- 
peatedly of  his  daughter." 


1 68  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Indeed  ?  "  said  the  old  lawyer,  with  an  air  of  sur- 
prise.  "  Well,  well,  it's  strange  how  things  turn  out. 
Of  course,  as  he  spoke  to  you  I  need  not  maintain 
silence  on  the  point,  as  I  can  now  feel  that  I  am  not 
breaking  any  confidence  reposed  in  me.  Not  that  old 
Mr.  Daunay  was  given  to  making  confidences.  Oh 
dear,  no  ;  he  was  a  very  reticent  man.  Reticence  is  a 
great  virtue  in  some  cases,  but  it  may  be  carried  too 
far.  In  this  case  I  have  sometimes  wished  that  Mr. 
Daunay  would  have  spoken  to  me  a  little  more  frankly 
on  certain  points/' 

"  Then  you  knew  all  along  that  there  was  a  daugh- 
ter ?"  said  Jocelyn,  suddenly  facing  him. 

"A  daughter?  Yes,"  said  the  little  lawyer,  softly, 
"  but  not  a  claimant  to  the  estate — not  a  legitimate 
daughter,  you  will  understand.  Mr.  Daunay  was  never 
married.  But  he  has  mentioned  this  child  to  me  ;  he 
took  a  very  practical  interest  in  her  welfare,  and  I  have 
had  to  forward  rather  large  sums  on  her  account  to  the 
people  who  have  charge  of  her." 

"Had,"  Jocelyn  corrected  him,  somewhat  abruptly. 
"  Mr.  Daunay  told  me  that  she  was  dead." 

The  lawyer  elevated  his  eyebrows  and  shook  his  head. 
"I  know  nothing  about  that.  I  have  had  no  formal 
notice  of  her  death.  He  told  you  so — in  so  many  words 
— told  you  that  the  girl  had  died  ?  " 

"  Certainly  he  did/'  said  Jocelyn.  "  The  fact  was" 
— the  young  man's  face  flushed  hotly  as  he  spoke — "  he 
had  some  idea  that  I  might  marry  his  daughter,  and 
that  by  doing  so  she  would  not  be  kept  out  of  her  share 
of  the  estate." 

"  Her  share  of  the  estate  ? "  repeated  the  lawyer, 
wonderingly.  "What  an  odd  expression,  under  the 


Mr.  Clissold's  Opinion.  169 

circumstances,  Mr.  Jocelyn  !  He  spoke  as  if  this  girl 
had  a  right  to  inherit  the  property — that  she  was  his 
lawful  daughter  by  a  valid  marriage  ?  " 

"  Certainly  he  did,"  said  Jocelyn. 

The  lawyer  drew  a  long  breath.  "  It  is  the  first  I 
have  heard  of  it,"  he  said,  startled  out  of  his  profes- 
sional caution.  Then,  in  a  blander  tone  :  "  In  that 
case  it  is  fortunate  that  things  have  so  far  adjusted 
themselves.  If  the  young  lady  in  question  is  dead,  as 
my  late  client  informed  you,  there  is  no  question  as  to 
your  right  to  the  property." 

"I  see,"  said  Jocelyn,  rather  confusedly.  "But 
then  this  claimant  you  speak  of  ?  Is  there  some  one 
else?" 

"That  is  the  odd  part  of  it,"  said  Mr.  Clissold.  "  I 
have  had  two  letters  lately,  one  from  the  person  who 
had  charge  of  the  girl  we  were  mentioning — the  sister, 
I  believe,  of  the  child's  mother,  who  died  some  years 
ago.  This  letter  runs  with  considerable  simplicity, 
possibly  assumed  for  the  occasion,  setting  forth  that 
Mr.  Daunay  had,  as  you  were  saying,  a  daughter  who 
claims  to  be  his  next  of  kin — claims,  that  is  to  say,  to 
be  his  legitimate  daughter  and  heiress.  If  that  were 
true  it  would,  of  course,  make  a  great  difference  to 
you." 

"  But  you  say  it  is  not  true,"  said  Jocelyn  ;  "  besides, 
what  about  her  death  ?" 

"Ah,  that  is  a  curious  complication.  Either  Mr. 
Daunay  was  misinformed,  or  it  is  just  possible,"  said 
the  lawyer,  cautiously,  "  that  he  might  have  his  reasons 
for  wishing  to  hide  the  truth,  or  that  the  girl  in  ques- 
tion is  still  alive.  I  have  now  received  another  letter 
on  the  subject  from  a  doctor  who  has  been  a  resident  at 


170  Daunay's  Tower. 

High  Eigg  for  many  years,  and  claims  to  know  all  the 
circumstances.  According  to  him  the  girl  is  very  much 
in  existence  indeed,  and  claims  to  be  John  Daunay's 
daughter  and  the  rightful  mistress  of  Daunay's  Tower. 
He  does  not  enclose  any  proofs,"  said  the  old  lawyer, 
with  a  touch  of  whimsical  humor  in  his  tone,  "  but  no 
doubt  he  has  got  them  ready  to  hand — up  his  sleeve,  so 
to  speak.  I  know  the  man." 

"  You  know  the  man  ?     Who  is  he,  then  ?  " 

"A  scamp,"  said  Mr.  Clissold.  "A  good-for- 
nothing  scrapegrace  who  was  cast  off  by  his  family  a 
good  many  years  ago  on  account  of  a  very  disagreeable 
episode  in  his  life  which  landed  him  in  prison  for  the 
space  of  two  years.  I  happen  to  know  that  his  family 
tried  to  send  him  out  to  Australia,  but  the  fellow  re- 
fused to  go,  and  chose  to  practise  as  a  doctor  (which  he 
had  not  the  slightest  right  to  do)  in  the  district  round 
about  High  Rigg.  It  was  there,  probably,  that  Mr. 
Daunay  first  became  acquainted  with  him,  and,  per- 
haps found  him  useful.  In  fact,  he  must  have  em- 
ployed him  a  good  deal "  (thinking  of  certain  sums 
which  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  paying  to  Eugene 
Lechmere's  account),  "  but  he  is  not  in  the  least  the 
sort  of  man  that  one  could  trust."  And  he  mentioned 
the  doctor's  name. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Jocelyn,  knitting  his  brows, 
"as  if  there  might  be  some  kind  of  plot  going  on. 
This  doctor  may  be  leagued  with  the  relations  of  the 
girl  in  an  endeavor  to  get  money  out  of  me,  even  if 
they  cannot  make  good  her  claim  to  the  estate/' 

"You  state  the  case  with  great  perspicacity,  my 
dear  sir,"  said  Mr.  Clissold.  "I  have  an  idea  of  the 
same  kind  myself  ;  and  the  more  one  looks  into  the 


Mr.  Clissold's  Opinion.  171 

matter  the  more  one  is  inclined  to  think  that  every- 
thing is  not  as  it  should  be.  Perhaps  it  would  be  as 
well  to  send  some  one  down  to  make  personal  inquiries 
at  High  Rigg.  I  have  a  very  discreet  young  man  in 
my  employ  whom  we  can  trust  perfectly." 

"  No,"  said  Jocelyu,  suddenly  getting  up  from  his 
chair  and  walking  about  the  office  in  a  restless  manner 
which  Mr.  Clissold  found  very  disturbing  to  his  nerves. 
"  I  had  rather  go  myself." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Jocelyn  !  My  dear  sir  !  Quite  im- 
possible !  " 

"  Why  ?  "  said  Jocelyn,  looking  anxious.  "  What 
difference  would  it  make  to  anybody  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  very  incorrect.  I  could  not  possibly 
approve  of  such  a  proceeding,"  said  Mr.  Clissold,  with 
severity.  "It  might  compromise  matters  to  a  remark- 
able degree." 

"  Really  ?  "  said  Jocelyn.  "  I'm  not  versed  in  these 
things,  you  see,  Mr.  Clissold.  But  if  you  sent  your 
clerk  down,  what  could  he  do  ?  " 

"He  would  inquire  into  the  characters  of  the  persons 
concerned,  for  one  thing.  He  could  ascertain  the  truth 
respecting  the  putative  daughter  of  the  late  Mr. 
Daunay.  No  doubt  local  gossip  would  put  him  in 
possession  of  most  of  the  facts." 

"  I  see.  Then  all  I  will  ask,  Mr.  Clissold,"  said 
Jocelyn,  with  unexpected  decision,  "is  that  you  should 
delay  your  clerk's  departure  for  a  day  or  two.  I  have 
some  inquiries  of  my  own  to  make  first." 

He  took  his  leave  thereupon  with  such  abruptness 
that  Mr.  Clissold  had  no  time  to  ask  questions  or  proffer 
warnings  of  any  kind.  In  fact  Jocelyn  felt  that  he  was 
making  an  escape.  The  idea  that  had  suddenly  leaped 


172  Daunay's  Tower. 

into  his  mind  seemed  to  him  so  good  that  he  de- 
termined to  put  it  into  execution  immediately,  without 
taking  Mr.  Clissold  into  his  confidence  at  all. 

"  Clissold  wants  me  under  his  thumb,  I  fancy,"  he 
said  to  himself,  with  a  little  laugh  of  amusement.  "  I 
think  I  must  have  my  fling  first." 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  go  down  to  High  Rigg 
and  investigate  matters  for  himself.  But  he  would  not 
go  under  his  own  name  exactly.  He  would  be  Mr. 
Jocelyn — that  was  fair  enough,  for  the  use  of  his 
mother's  maiden  name  would  be  quite  sufficient  warn- 
ing to  people  on  "the  other  side."  No  doubt  these 
people  would  know  all  about  his  family  ;  they  would 
need  all  the  information  that  they  could  acquire.  As 
for  himself  he  suddenly  recollected  he  knew  next 
to  nothing.  He  did  not  even  know  the  name  of  the 
persons  who  had  charge  of  Mr.  Daunay's  daughter. 
Well,  it  was  too  late  to  inquire  ;  if  he  went  back  to  Mr. 
Clissold  with  the  question,  Mr.  Clissold  would  ask  him 
what  he  meant  to  do.  He  would  chance  it  ;  there  was 
sure  to  be  some  way  of  ascertaining  facts  when  he 
was  in  the  neighborhood  of  Daunay's  Tower.  There 
was  this  scoundrel  of  a  doctor  :  Jocelyn  made  up  his 
mind  to  be  on  his  guard  against  him.  What  a  pity  that 
a  man  of  this  kind  should  be  let  loose  in  a  country  vil- 
lage to  work  his  devilries  among  the  simple  village  folk  ! 
Jocelyn  made  up  his  mind  that  when  he  was  master  of 
Daunay's  Tower  he  would  manage  to  expel  this  ruffianly 
medical  man  from  the  place. 

He  had  not  yet  finally  thrown  up  his  position  in  the 
Foreign  Office,  but  he  had  leave  of  absence,  and  Mr.  Clis- 
sold had  supplied  him  plentifully  with  money.  A  little 
time  would  have  to  elapse,  of  course,  before  Mr.  Dau- 


Mr.  Clissold's  Opinion.  173 

nay's  will  could  be  proved.  For  there  was  a  will,  though 
of  a  very  unsatisfactory  kind.  It  had  been  executed 
shortly  after  the  date  of  John  Daunay's  elopement  with 
Betha  (although  Jocelyn  did  not  know  that),  and  de- 
vised all  his  property  in  the  simplest  possible  manner  to 
his  next-of-kin.  Now  a  daughter  was  nearer  than  a 
first  cousin  once  removed  ;  therefore,  if  the  girl  of  whom 
Jocelyn  had  heard  was  John  Daunay's  lawful  child, 
everything  would  go  to  her  and  Jocelyn  could  claim 
nothing  at  all.  He  whistled  as  he  thought  of  this  view 
of  the  case,  and  then  turned  a  little  cold. 

It  would  be  a  trifle  hard  to  go  back  to  his  work  in  the 
office,  to  see  Edith  slaving  to  make  ends  meet  in  the  little 
flat,  to  be  unable  to  pay  those  debts  of  his  father's  which 
were  always  upon  his  mind.  He  had  had  a  prospect  of 
pleasautcr  things,  and  they  would  all  have  to  be  given 
up.  It  was  natural  that  he  should  wish,  bitterly  enough, 
for  a  minute  or  two,  that  John  Daunay  had  had  no 
daughter,  or  that  he  had  not  raised  hopes  which  his  sud- 
den death  had  rendered  worse  than  vain. 

But  ho  recovered  himself  after  a  time,  and  looked  once 
more  at  the  bright  side  of  things.  Surely  Mr.  Daunay 
knew  what  he  was  talking  about  when  he  said  that  his 
daughter  was  dead  !  Yet  there  had  been  a  strange  appeal 
in  his  eyes  when  he  uttered  that  last  faltering  cry  upon 
her  name.  "  Annabel  !  "  he  had  said,  three  times. 
"  Annabel  !  Annabel  !  "  And  Jocelyn  remembered, 
with  almost  a  superstitious  thrill,  that  he  had  promised 
to  do  all  that  Mr.  Daunay  wished,  all  that  he  could,  to 
put  things  straight.  Had  he  committed  himself,  he 
wondered,  to  something  far  beyond  his  knowledge  and 
his  power  ? 

At  any  rate,  he  would  go  down  to  Cumberland,  and 


174  Daunay's  Tower. 

see  things  for  himself.  He  was  young  enough  to  feel  his 
heart  lighter  at  the  prospect  of  a  change.  And  if  he 
went  he  would  avoid  Mrs.  Wycherly  :  he  could  make 
business  affairs  an  excuse  for  not  joining  her  at  the 
country-house  where  she  was  going  to  stay.  He  had 
grown  a  little  afraid  of  Mrs.  Wycherly.  She  seemed 
always  to  want  more  of  him  than  he  could  give. 

He  packed  his  portmanteau  and  set  out  that  very  eve- 
ning, not  even  telling  his  sister  whither  he  was  bound. 


At  The  Daunay  Arms.  175 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

AT  THE  DAUNAY   ARMS. 

THERE  was  only  one  inn  at  High  Rigg,  and  it  was 
called  The  Daunay  Arms.  It  was  a  whitewashed 
building  abutting  on  the  street,  with  a  highly-colored 
sign  swinging  in  the  wind.  Jocelyn  looked  at  it  curi- 
ously, contrasting  it  in  his  own  mind  with  the  more 
conventional  and  sophisticated  restaurants  and  hotels 
where  he  had  usually  spent  his  holidays,  but  liking  it 
none  the  worse  for  the  difference.  After  all  he  was  a 
Cumberland  man — a  Daunay — although  he  had  never 
been  conscious  of  the  race-instinct ;  but  something 
that  he  had  never  known  before  awoke  in  him  at  the 
sight  of  the  peaks  and  fells  and  brawling  streams  of 
the  north  country  to  which  he  belonged.  He  had 
lived  a  good  part  of  his  life  in  London,  and  it  astonished 
him  to  find  how  familiar  the  fell-scenery  seemed  to 
him.  There  was  an  extraordinary  sense  of  satisfaction 
in  gazing  at  the  purple  sweep  of  moor  and  crag  ;  at 
the  rapid  little  river,  with  its  plain  stone  bridge ;  at 
the  cobbled  streets  even  of  the  little  whitewashed  town. 

"  Mr.  Jocelyn  : "  thus  did  he  give  his  name,  and 
fancied  that  there  was  a  look  of  recognition  in  the  eye 
of  the  burly  landlord  as  the  syllables  passed  his  lips. 
But  he  was  quite  mistaken  ;  David  Grier  had  never 
heard  of  a  Jocelyn  in  all  his  life.  He  was  not  a  Cumber- 
land man  at  all,  and  knew  nothing  of  the  High  Rigg 
and  Cross  Fell  traditions.  Jocelyn  tried  to  draw  him 


176  Daunay's  Tower. 

into  conversation  in  the  traditional  way  ;  that  is  to  say, 
he  ordered  port  wine  and  asked  the  landlord  to  drink 
with  him ;  but  his  efforts  were  all  in  vain.  He  sup- 
posed that  he  was  too  new  to  the  sort  of  work  to  be 
able  to  draw  any  information  out  of  Mr.  Grier  ;  but  in 
reality  Mr.  Grier  had  very  little  information  to  give. 
The  landlady  was  more  acute  than  her  husband.  She 
was  a  buxom,  smiling  country-woman,  who  looked  at 
Jocelyn's  handsome  face  with  an  admiring  eye,  and 
halted  before  long  at  his  side  and  spoke. 

"I  heard  you  asking  my  man  about  Daunay's 
Tower ,"  she  said.  "  He  don't  know  much  about  the 
place  ;  he  were  a  Yorkshire  chap.  But  I  know  most 
that  there  is  to  know  in  a  silly  bit  of  a  village  like 
High  Kigg." 

"  You've  seen  the  world,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  Jocelyn, 
bent  on  flattery. 

"A  bit  of  it,"  said  Mrs.  Grier,  indifferently. 
"  Mind,  there's  worse  places  than  High  Rigg.  We've 
got  a  capital  parson  and  a  first-rate  doctor,  which  is 
saying  something ;  but  we  haven't  got  a  squire  that's 
any  good  to  us,  and  that's  a  loss  to  a  place." 

"  Where  is  your  squire,  then  ?  " 

"  It's  to  be  hoped  he's  in  heaven,"  said  Mrs.  Grier. 
"  But  I  doubt  it,"  she  added,  after  a  pause.  "Not  if 
heaven's  gained  by  good  works,  anyway." 

"  Ah  !     You  didn't  like  him  ?"  said  Jocelyn. 

"No,  I  didn't,"  said  Mrs.  Grier  decisively.  "  And 
I  don't  know  who  did." 

"  Why,  the  Arnolds  did,  missis,"  said  her  husband, 
significantly.  "They  liked  him  well  enough.  And 
to  their  own  undoing,  as  one  may  say." 

"People  will  always  talk,"  said  Mrs.  Grier;  "but 


At  The  Daunay  Arms.  177 

some  say  one  thing  and  some  another ;  and  although 
Jane  Arnold  was  not  much  to  my  taste,  yet  she  kept 
herself  respectable,  which  Betha  didn't,  if  all  tales  be 
true.  However,  the  gentleman  doesn't  care  to  hear 
about  High  Rigg  folk,  whether  they  were  Arnolds  or 
Daunays  ;  and  there's  very  nearly  an  end  to  both  of  the 
families  now." 

"  You're  forgetting,  dame,  there's  a  young  gentle- 
man come  into  Mr.  Daunay's  property,  so  I  hear  ;  and 
although  Jane  Arnold's  getting  weakly,  there's  the 
girl  that  lives  with  her — another  Arnold,  by  all  ac- 
counts, though  I  don't  know  where  she  comes  from 
exactly/' 

"  Nor  anybody  else,"  said  Mrs.  Grier,  shutting  her 
mouth  tightly.  "  There's  no  living  relation  of  Jane 
Arnold's  that  would  have  a  girl  that  age,  father  ;  but 
if  there's  any  one  she  takes  after  it's  poor  Betha,  who 
ran  away  from  home  four-and-twenty  years  ago." 

Jocelyn  did  not  see  that  this  sort  of  conversation 
was  of  any  interest  or  advantage  to  him  :  he  had  not 
grasped  the  fact  that  Arnold  was  the  name  of  the  per- 
son who  had  written  to  Mr.  Clissold  about  the  suppos- 
ititious Annabel  Daunay.  He  paid  no  further  atten- 
tion to  the  talk  of  the  landlord  and  his  wife,  but  took 
up  a  local  paper  and  glanced  over  it  carelessly.  He 
was  sitting  in  the  bar-parlor,  the  resort  of  the  better 
class  of  guests,  and  was  not  sorry  to  see  the  door 
pushed  open  and  another  visitor  enter  the  room. 

"  Fallen  dead  lame,  Grier,"  said  the  newcomer,  in 
a  peculiarly  brisk,  pleasant  voice  ;  "  I  can't  use  her 
again  to-night.  You  must  let  me  have  your  bay  mare, 
for  I'm  due  at  Halness  in  three  quarters  of  an  hour." 

The  landlord  stood  in  the    doorway,    rubbing   his 

12 


178  Daunay's  Tower. 

hands.  "  You'll  drive  her  careful,  won't  you,  sir  ? 
You  do  get  work  out  of  your  cattle,  to  be  sure  ;  but 
my  Beauty  ain't  used  to  it." 

"  I  never  heard  my  driving  complained  of  before," 
said  the  gentleman,  with  a  laugh.  Then  he  came  up 
to  the  fireplace,  and  spread  out  his  hands  to  the  blaze, 
which  was  welcome  on  a  somewhat  chilly  September 
evening  among  the  Cumberland  hills.  "Make  haste, 
Grier,  there's  a  good  fellow  ;  I'll  bring  your  mare  back 
safe  and  sound  before  midnight." 

Who  was  he  ?  Jocelyu  wondered.  There  was  some- 
thing attractive  in  the  man's  personality — in  the  slight, 
active  figure,  the  keen  face,  the  brilliant  hazel  eyes. 
Jocelyn  was  conscious  of  being  scrutinized  in  a  passing 
glance,  and  he  felt  vaguely  nattered  when  the  stranger 
addressed  him  with  reassuring  ease. 

"  It's  a  cold  evening  for  this  time  of  year,"  he  said. 

It  was  a  perfectly  banal  remark,  but  it  served  as  an 
opening  for  conversation. 

"  It  certainly  seems  cold  to  me,"  said  Jocelyn ; 
*'  but  then  I  come  from  London." 

He  would  never  have  made  a  good  detective.  Of 
course,  his  first  duty  was  not  to  let  it  be  known  Avhence 
he  came  ;  but  he  forgot  all  about  that,  especially  when 
this  singularly  fascinating  stranger  looked  him  in  the 
eyes.  What  was  there  about  him  which  at  once  re- 
minded Jocelyn  of  some  other  person  ?  He  could  not 
explain  the  odd,  fleeting  likeness  to  somebody  else 
which  now  and  then  crossed  the  brown  face  of  this 
slender,  bright-eyed  man,  with  that  indescribably  for- 
eign look  which  seemed  so  curiously  out  of  place  in  a 
village  inn.  He  felt  as  if  he  must  have  met  him  be- 
fore ;  yet  he  could  not  remember  where  or  when. 


At  The  Daunay  Arms.  179 

"  You  come  from  London  ?  Ah,  it  is  a  long  while 
since  1  was  there.  This  is  a  quiet  place,  but  one  grows 
used  to  anything." 

"  You  live  here  ?"  said  Jocelyn,  more  and  more  sur- 
prised. 

"  Oh  yes  ;  I've  lived  here  for  more  than  twenty 
years. " 

"Can  you  tell  me,  then,"  said  Jocelyn,  eagerly, 
"anything  about  a  doctor  who  lives  here — a  man  of 
the  name  of  Eugene  Lechmere,  whom  I  have  heard  of 
in  London  ?  " 

The  man's  face  changed  a  little.  Naturally  a  mo- 
bile face,  it  became  as  impassive  as  a  mask.  He  looked 
full  at  Jocelyn  as  he  replied. 

"  Xaturally,"  he  said,  "  I  could  tell  you  a  good  deal 
about  him  if  I  chose.  1  am  Eugene  Lechmere  my- 
self." 

"  You ! "  said  Jocelyn.  Then,  almost  inaudibly, 
"  AVhat  an  ass  I  am  !" 

"  You  thought  I  had  horns  and  a  cloven  hoof,  per- 
haps/' said  Lechmere,  composedly.  "  But,  on  the 
whole,  I  am  very  much  like  other  men.  Did  you  wish 
to  make  my  acquaintance,  Mr.  Jocelyn  Daunay  ?  " 

"  You  know  my  name  ?  "  said  the  young  man  start- 
ing. 

Eugene  laughed  outright.  "  What  an  excellent 
conspirator  you  would  make  !  "  he  said,  but  there  was 
nothing  ill-natured  in  his  tone.  "I  guessed;  that 
was  all.  Grier  spoke  of  you  to  me  as  Mr.  Jocelyn  ; 
the  family  name  of  the  lady  whom  Mr.  Alfred  Daunay 
married  was  Jocelyn  ;  and  you  ask  for  Eugene  Lech- 
mere who  wrote  quite  recently  to  your  solicitor.  It 
did  not  take  much  intelligence  to  roll  vour  name." 


180  Daunay's  Tower. 

Jocelyn  had  turned  very  red.  "  I  mnst  tell  you," 
he  said,  "that  this  visit  is  a  mere  freak  of  my  own. 
Mr.  Clissold  does  not  know  of  it.  I  have  not  corne 
with  any  ill  intent,  and  if  you  think  that  I  am  acting 
unfairly,  I'll  go  home  again  to-morrow  morning." 

Dr.  Lechmere  looked  at  him  intently.  ''By  no 
means,"  he  said  at  length.  "  Stay  and  enjoy  your  visit. 
I  almost  think  I  would  abandon  your  incognito  if  I  were 
you  ;  it's  a  little  meaningless,  as  you  have  '  no  ill  intent,' 
is  it  not  ?  But  keep  it  if  you  like  ;  I  will  not  betray 
you — without  warning  you  beforehand,  at  any  rate." 

"  I  would  rather  keep  it  for  the  present,"  said  Jocelyn, 
looking  down. 

"  Certainly."  Dr.  Lechmere's  manner  was  evidently 
that  of  a  superior  ;  he  had  the  careless  lightness  of  a 
man  of  the  world  to  a  mere  boy,  and  yet  Jocelyn  did 
not  dislike  it.  He  was  fascinated,  in  spite  of  himself. 
He  felt  an  irresistible  impulse  to  see  more  of  the  man 
against  whom  he  had  been  so  strongly  warned. 

' '  May  I  come  and  see  you  ?  "  he  said.  When  he  was 
not  acting  a  part,  not  trying  to  seem  old  and  experienced, 
Jocelyn  was  almost  boyishly  simple  and  direct.  "  I 
should  like  to  have  a  talk  with  you — on  business." 

"  I  conclude  you  know  that  we  are  on  different  sides," 
said  the  doctor,  coolly. 

"  I  suppose  so.  We  might  compromise  the  matter, 
perhaps  ?  '*' 

"  We  ? — what,  you  and  I  ?  You  think  I'm  playing 
for  my  own  hand,  do  you  ?  " 

' ( I  don't  know  what  to  think,"  said  Jocelyn.  "  I  only 
know  that  I'm  very  anxious  not  to  do  anything  unfair, 
and  if  you  can  help  me  to  a  real  knowledge  of  the  facts 
I  shall  be  very  much  obliged." 


At  The  Daunay  Arms.  181 

"  Upon  my  word  ! "  said  Lechmere.  He  looked  the 
young  man  up  and  down  with  so  frank  an  expression  of 
surprise  and  amusement  that  Jocelyn  was  half  inclined 
to  take  offense,  until  the  doctor  burst  into  one  of  his 
rare  laughs — a  laugh  so  full  of  enjoyment  that  the 
younger  man  was  forced  to  join  in  it  too.  "  Upon  my 
word,"  Eugene  said  again,  "  that  caps  all,  as  they  say 
about  here.  You  Avalk  straight  up  to  the  enemy  and 
ask  for  information  as  coolly  as  if  we  were  playing  a 
child's  game  !  It  means  more  than  that  to  Miss  Annabel 
Daunay,  I  can  tell  you,  and  we  intend  to  fight  you  tooth 
and  nail." 

"  But  what  have  you  to  do  with  Miss  Annabel  Dau- 
nay's  affairs  ?  "  said  Jocelyn,  with  admirable  simplicity. 

The  laughter  died  out  of  Lechmere's  face.  His  hazel 
eyes  began  to  flame,  his  dark  brows  to  lower. 

"  Miss  Daunay's  relations  have  not  been  so  helpful  to 
her  that  she  can  dispense  with  the  services  of  even  so 
poor  a  friend  as  I  am/'  he  said.  Then  he  turned  sharply 
to  the  fire,  with  his  shoulder  towards  Jocelyn,  as  if 
desirous  to  close  the  conversation. 

Jocelyn  did  not  know  how  to  proceed.  He  felt  that 
he  was  making  a  poor  figure  in  the  interview,  and  he 
Imd  no  idea  that  Lechmere  was  struggling  against  a  very 
favorable  impression  of  his  sincerity  and  frankness.  The 
silence  was  broken  by  the  entrance  of  Mrs.  Grier,  with 
a  tray  which  she  set  down  upon  the  table.  There  were 
two  bottles  on  the  tray,  as  well  as  hot  water,  some 
tumblers,  and  a  couple  of  liqueur-glasses. 

"Now,  doctor,"  she  said  coaxingly,  "I  want  you  to 
taste  my  cherry-brandy  before  you  go  out  into  the  cold 
night  air.  It'll  do  you  good,  if  you  have  to  get  to 
Halness  to  see  her  ladyship — such  a  long  drive  at  this 


1 82  Daunay's  Tower. 

time  of  night.  I've  brought  the  whisky  too,  but  I  know 
you  won't  touch  it — you  never  will." 

"  Ah,  Mrs.  Grier,  you  are  quite  a  temptress,"  said 
Lechmere  turning  round  gaily.  "Don't  you  know  that 
if  I  drink  whisky  I  shall  infallibly  let  Beauty  down  and 
break  her  knees  ?  A  thimble-full  of  your  cherry  cordial 
I  won't  refuse  ;  I  know  it's  uncommonly  good." 

"  And  the  doctor's  an  excellent  judge,  sir,"  said  Mrs. 
Grier  to  Jocelyn,  who  looked  on  with  interest  and  some 
surprise.  "  You'll  let  me  pour  you  out  a  drop — just  a 
drop?" 

Jocelyn  consented,  and  found  the  cherry-brandy  ex- 
cellent. 

"  Admirable,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere,  setting  down  his 
liqueur-glass  only  half  emptied,  "but far  too  strong  for 
a  man  who  is  going  to  drive  over  Cross  Fell  to-night. 
I  wish  you  would  send  a  little  of  it  up  to  Miss  Arnold, 
Mrs.  Grier  ;  it  would  do  her  a  lot  of  good." 

Mrs.  Grier  looked  cross  for  a  moment,  then  melted 
into  a  smile. 

"  Well,  if  you  wish  it,  doctor,  I'll  see  whether  I  can 
spare  a  bottle.  Miss  Arnold's  no  better,  I'm  afraid  ? 
And  how's  Miss  Annabel  ?  " 

"Oh,  very  well,  I  think,"  said  the  doctor,  noting  a 
sudden  flash  of  expression  in  Jocelyn's  face.  "Very 
busy  with  her  garden  and  her  books,  as  usual." 

"  Ah,  she  ought  to  goto  London," said  Mrs.  Grier,  in 
a  tone  of  deep  commiseration.  "  London's  the  place 
for  a  pretty,  clever  girl  like  her.  It's  a  pity  to  keep 
her  mewed  up  forever  at  Moorside  Farm." 

"  She  won't  be  mewed  up  there  forever,  Mrs.  Grier," 
said  the  doctor,  looking  at  Jocelyn  with  somewhat 
malicious  intensity.  "  She  has  friends  in  London  who 


At  The  Daunay  Arms.  183 

want  to  see  her  very  badly.     We  must   communicate 
with  them,  and  give  them  the  chance  of  inviting  her." 

"That  would  do  her  a  lot  of  good,"  said  Mrs.  Grier. 
"  Now,  do  finish  what's  in  your  glass,  Dr.  Lechmere. 
It  won't  hurt  you  one  hit,  and  it  will  keep  the  cold  out. 
And  yon,  sir,  will  you  take  another  glass  ?  " 

"  No  more,  thank  you,"  said  Jocelyn,  rather  moodily. 
How  deferential  the  woman  was  towards  this  scoundrel 
of  a  doctor !  Was  he  a  scoundrel,  or  only  a  very 
agreeable  and  unlucky  man  ?  And  where  was  this  un- 
known Annabel  Daunay  to  be  found  ? 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  were  again  alone,  for  Mrs. 
Grier  stepped  to  the  door  to  speak  to  a  servant.  Dr. 
Lechmere  turned  to  Jocelyn,  and  spoke  with  sudden 
and  ominous  dryness. 

"  If  you  wish  to  make  your  cousin's  acquaintance,"  he 
said,  "she  is  under  the  care  of  Miss  Arnold  at  the 
Moorside  Farm.  Anybody  will  tell  you  where  that  is. 
Only,  you  must  not  ask  for  her  as  Miss  Daunay." 

"  Perhaps  I  should  not  be  likely  to  do  so,"  said 
Jocelyn,  his  face  darkening. 

•  "  She  is  known  as  Annabel  Arnold  for  the  present. 
Before  long  she  must  assert  herself,  and  take  her  legal 
name,,  which  is  Daunay ;  but  that  is  not  generally 
known." 

Jocelyn  hesitated.  "  I  spoke  ungenerously,"  he  said. 
"  If  it  is  her  legal  name,  I  should  be  the  last  person  to 
oppose  her  using  it.  I  am  simply  forced  to  ask  her — 
or  you — to  prove  her  claim." 

"  We  shall  prove  it,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere,  smiling. 
Then  he  raised  the  liqueur-glass  again  to  his  lips.  "  To 
our  next  merry  meeting,  Mr.  Daunay,  wherever  it  may 
be!" 


184  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  I  shall  come  and  see  you,"  said  Jocelyn,  with  a 
sudden  impulse  of  friendship.  "  I  should  like  to  talk 
over  the  matter  with  you,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  Come  to-morrow  evening/'  said  the  doctor,  curtly. 
"  But  it  must  be  '  without  prejudice,'  as  the  lawyers 
say.  Our  talk  must  be  strictly  impersonal." 

"  Oh,  of  course." 

"  Good  night,  then,"  said  Lechmere,  in  a  more  cor- 
dial tone  ;  and  he  nodded  his  farewell  with  almost  a 
friendly  smile. 

"  Rather  a  nice  lad,"  he  said  to  himself  as  Beauty 
sped  forth  into  the  night.  "Unassuming  and  sweet- 
tempered,  and — oh,  damnably  good-looking  !  I  wonder 
what  Annabel  will  say  to  him  ?  " 

He  was  jealous  already. 


Jocelyn's  Defeat.  185 


CHAPTER  XIX, 

JOCELYN'S  DEFEAT. 

THE  autumn  lights  were  almost  more  beautiful  than 
those  of  summer,  as  they  lingered  in  their  golden 
glory  on  the  sun-bathed  hills.  So  Annabel  thought, 
as  she  walked  about  her  garden,  gathering  some  of  the 
sweeter  and  more  delicate  blossoms  for  her  aunt's 
room,  and  musing  a  little  over  one  or  two  events  which 
had  lately  perplexed  her.  She  did  not  let  her  mind 
dwell  very  much  on  these  perplexities  ;  she  preferred 
to  look  at  the  sunshine  and  breathe  the.  perfume  of 
the  late  autumn  roses,  but  she  could  not  be  ignorant 
that  there  was  trouble  in  the  air. 

As  yet  she  had  been  told  very  little  concerning  her 
claims  to  the  Daunay  estate.  She  did  not  know 
enough  of  the  world  to  be  curious  about  it.  She  had 
at  once  concluded,  when  she  heard  of  her  father's 
death,  that  he  had  left  all  his  possessions  to  the  young 
man  of  whom  he  had  spoken  to  her,  and  troubled  her- 
self no  more  about  it.  Why  her  aunt  cried  sometimes 
for  no  apparent  reason,  why  Dr.  Lechmere  looked 
sometimes  so  melancholy  and  sometimes  so  extremely 
stern,  was  all  a  mystery  to  her ;  and  the  happy  in- 
souciance of  her  disposition  prevented  her  from  dwell- 
ing upon  it  particularly.  "  Oh,  what  does  it  matter  ?  " 
she  said  once,  when  her  aunt  dropped  a  word  in  her 
hearing  about  her  future  prospects.  "Why  should  I 
ever  be  rich  ?  All  the  nicest  people  in  the  world  are 


1 86  Daunay's  Tower. 

poor."  And  then  Miss  Arnold  had  exchanged  a  ques- 
tioning glance  with  Dr.  Lechmere,  and  his  quiet  shake 
of  the  head  had  warned  her  to  say  nothing  more. 

Xeither  of  them  could  bear  to  distress  her  with  the 
doubt  that  had  been  cast  upon  her  right  to  use  her 
father's  name.  As  yet  she  had  always  signed  herself 
"  Annabel  Arnold,"  as  a  name  more  familiar  and  more 
convenient  while  she  lived  at  the  Moorside  Farm. 

She  spoke  once,  somewhat  uncertainly,  of  calling 
herself  Annabel  Daunay  for  the  future,  but  was  rather 
pleased  than  otherwise  when  her  aunt  told  her  she  had 
better  make  no  change.  So  there  was  very  little 
trouble  upon  her  serene  brow  when  Jocelyn  Daunay 
came  up  the  road  that  bright  September  day,  and  saw 
her  for  the  first  time  in  her  garden,  with  a  cluster  of 
monthly  roses  in  her  hand. 

He  stopped  short,  with  his  heart  in  his  mouth,  when  he 
caught  sight  of  her.  The  lovely  creature,  all  in  white, 
with  the  pink  roses  in  her  delicate  hand — who  could  she 
be  ?  Some  beautiful  girl  from  a  distance,  no  doubt, 
who  was  staying  in  the  neighborhood  ;  perhaps  she  had 
been  sent  to  the  fells  for  her  health  ?  But  no,  the  girl 
before  him  bore  no  sign  of  weakness  in  her  straight 
form,  her  supple  limbs,  her  smoothly  tinted  cheek. 
Who  was  she  ?  That  she  could  be  the  girl  of  whom 
he  had  heard,  the  false  Annabel  Daunay,  who  was*try- 
ing  to  oust  him  from  his  inheritance,  never  crossed  his 
mind.  He  walked  slowly  towards  the  gate,  wondering 
how  he  could  contrive  to  speak  to  her. 

She  heard  his  step,  and  turned  a  moment  to  glance 
at  him  ;  then,  seeing  that  he  was  a  perfect  stranger, 
occupied  herself  once  more  with  her  roses.  But  what 
was  the  stranger  doing  ?  Taking  off  his  hat  and  speak- 


Jocelyn's  Defeat.  187 

ing  to  her  ?  "I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  had  apolo- 
getically begun. 

Annabel  went  calmly  to  the  gate.  She  was  quite 
accustomed  to  being  spoken  to  by  strangers — tourists 
who  had  lost  their  way,  tramps  who  begged  coppers 
or  a  glass  of  milk,  passers-by  who  simply  wanted  to 
look  at  her  —  she  was  well  acquainted  with  them 
all. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you?"  she  asked,  with 
gracious  coldness.  This  young  man,  she  reflected, 
was  not  an  ordinary  tourist  or  commerical  traveler  ; 
his  clothes  fitted  him,  and  he  was  really  rather  hand- 
some !  And  she  perceived,  almost  immediately,  that 
he  was  a  gentleman. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  Jocelyn  said.  "  I  am  a 
stranger  here,  and  I  am  looking  for  a  house  called,  I 
think,  Moorside  Farm — The  Moorside  Farm." 

"  Yes  ?  This  is  Moorside  Farm,"  she  said.  "  Did 
you  want  to  see  my  aunt  ?  " 

"It  was  Miss  Arnold  I  thought  of  seeing,"  said  the 
young  man,  in  some  confusion. 

"  Yes,  that  is  my  aunt.  I  am  Miss  Arnold's  niece. 
But  she  is  not  well ;  she  is  in  her  room,  and  cannot 
see  anybody  to-day.  If  you  will  tell  me  your  business, 
I  will  take  a  message  to  her." 

How  alarmingly  direct  and  straightforward  she  was  ! 
Jocelyn  felt  obliged  to  temporize.  "  Dr.  Lechmere 
gave  me  your  address,"  he  began,  and  was  puzzled  by 
an  instant  change  in  her  fair  face. 

She  was  a  little  piqned  by  Dr.  Lechmere's  treatment 
of  her  that  morning,  and  she  could  not  help  showing 
her  voxation  in  her  face  when  his  name  was  mentioned. 
He  had  called,  as  usual,  on  Miss  Arnold,  and  she,  An- 


1 88  Daunay's  Tower. 

nabel,  had  been  ordered  out  of  the  room  like  a  child. 
And  when  she  wanted  to  ask  him  about  her  Aunt  Jane, 
he  had  told  her  rather  coldly  and  carelessly,  she 
thought,  that  he  had  no  time  to  talk,  and  had  sprung 
into  his  cart  and  driven  off  as  if  he  were  glad  to  get 
away.  Annabel  had  not  recovered  from  it  since. 

"  Oh,"  she  said  coldly.  "  Then,  I  suppose,  it  is  you 
who  have  come  about  the  clocks  ?  Dr.  Lechmere 
promised  to  send  to  Carlisle  for  some  one." 

Jocelyn  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  to  be 
vexed.  That  he  should  be  taken  for  a  repairer  of  time- 
pieces was  absurd  enough,  but  for  a  moment  he  was 
almost  inclined  to  proclaim  himself  a  clockmaker  for 
the  sake  of  conversing  a  little  longer  with  Miss  Arnold's 
niece.  It  flashed  across  him  that  he  had  put  himself 
into  a  very  ambiguous  position.  He  wished  he  had 
taken  Mr.  Clissold's  advice,  and  allowed  him  to  send 
the  very  trustworthy  young  man  from  the  office. 

But  why  should  he  not  be  the  trustworthy  young 
man  himself  ?  All  was  fair  in  love  and  war  ;  and  this 
was  war,  for  Dr.  Lechmere  had  declared  that  Annabel 
Daunay  meant  to  fight  him  tooth  and  nail.  So  lie  bent 
himself  to  a  novel  impersonation  of  Mr.  Clissold's  con- 
fidential clerk,  and  he  did  it  with  a  will. 

"I  have  come  from  London,"  he  said.  "I  come 
from  Mr.  Clissold — on  business." 

"  Who  is  Mr.  Clissold  ?  "  said  Annabel.  She  really 
did  not  know.  Miss  Arnold  had  never  mentioned  the 
lawyer's  name  to  her. 

Jocelyn  was  mystified.  "  He  is  a  solicitor.  He  acts 
for — for — the  late  Mr.  Daunay's  family." 

"  Oh,  indeed,"  she  said,  with  a  fine  air  of  uncon- 
cern. "  Then  that  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  me.  Are 


Jocelyn's  Defeat.  189 

you  staying  at  High  Rigg  ?  Because  I  dare  say  my 
auut  will  be  better  in  a  day  or  two,  and  able  to  see  you 
if  your  business  is  important." 

"  It  is  rather  important,"  said  Jocelyn.  "But  if 
she  is  ill  I  must  communicate  with  my  employer.  It 
may  be  that  he  will  want  me  to  return  to  London  at 
once.  " 

"I  see,"  said  Annabel.  "That  is  unlucky,  is  it 
not  ? "  She  paused  as  if  considering  the  matter. 
"  Do  you  know  Dr.  Lechmere  ?  "  she  asked  at  length, 
with  apparent  abruptness. 

"  A  little.     I  met  him  last  night — that  was  all." 

"  Because,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  businesslike  way, 
"if  you  could  get  hold  of  him,  you  might  ask  him  how 
soon  Aunt  Jane  could  receive  you,  and  whether  she 
was  well  enough  to  be  troubled  with  business  matters. 
I  don't  think  that  she  is  ;  but  the  doctor  will,  no 
doubt,  know  better  than  I." 

Jocelyn  was  not  sufficiently  well  acquainted  with  her 
to  discern  the  spice  of  irony  in  her  tone. 

"  I  shall  see  Dr.  Lechmere  this  evening.  I  am  go- 
ing to  call  upon  him,"  he  remarked. 

"  Oh  yes,  you  will  enjoy  it,"  said  Annabel,  a  little 
more  warmly.  . "  He  is  a  very  interesting  man." 

Here  was  an  opening.  Jocelyn  thought  that  he 
might  turn  it  to  advantage. 

"  You  know  Dr.  Lechmere  ?  " 

"  I  have  known  him  all  my  life." 

"  Really  ?  But  I  thought  I  heard  him  say  that  he 
had  not  left  this  part  of  the  world  for  years." 

"  Is  there  anything  surprising  in  that  ?  "  mocked 
Annabel.  She  was  quite  at  ease  with  him  now, 
considering  him  a  friend  of  her  dear  Doctor  Eugene— 


Daunay's  Tower. 

of  whom  she  was  very  fond,  in  spite  of  her  transient 
fits  of  naughtiness.  "  I  have  never  left  this  part  of 
the  world  either.  T  was  born  here,  and  I  have  never 
been  farther  than  Carlisle." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?  " 

"  I  suppose,"  said  the  girl, rather  scornfully,  "that 
you  are  a  London  man,  and  think  that  there  is  nothing 
worth  living  for  out  of  London  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Jocelyn,  hastily,  "  I  could  certainly  not 
think  that.  I  was  brought  up  in  the  country.  My 
father  was  a  clergyman." 

"  How  nice  !  "  she  said  simply.  "  You  don't  know 
how  idyllic  that  sounds  to  me — to  be  a  clergyman's 
son  or  daughter,  to  live  in  a  lovely  vicarage,  all  over 
roses,  and  to  teach  in  a  Sunday  school " 

"  I  assure  you  I  never  taught  in  a  Sunday  school," 
said  Jocelyn. 

"  Didn't  you  ?  Then  you  are  weighed  in  the  balance 
and  found  wanting.  I  have  always  thought  that  I 
should  love  to  teach  in  a  Sunday  school." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  ? " 

She  smiled,  and  indicated  the  hills  and  vales  around 
her  by  a  graceful  motion  of  her  hand. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  we  live  miles  away  from  every- 
where ?  These  roads  are  almost  impassable  when  it 
rains.  I  often  tell  Dr.  Eugene " 

"  Dr.  who  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Lechmere  ;  I  call  him  Dr.  Eugene  as  a 
sort  of  pet  name,  I  think.  You  see,  he  has  nobody  in 
all  the  world  to  call  him  by  his  Christian  name — he 
told  me  so.  And  that  seems  very  sad  to  me,  somehow. 
But,  as  I  was  saying,  Dr.  Eugene  and  I  often  quarrel 
about  the  roads.  I  say  that  they  are  a  disgrace  to  a 


Jocelyn's  Defeat.  191 

Christian  nation,  that  they  are  not  kept  well  enough 
to  allow  us  to  go  to  church  in  winter,  and  he  says  that 
if  our  Christianity  depends  upon  the  weather,  it  caii- 
not  count  for  much." 

She  looked  with  laughing  eyes  into  Jocelyn's  face, 
and  he  laughed  back  from  sympathy. 

"  I  have  not  seen  much  of  Dr.  Lechmere,  but  from 
what  I  have  seen  I  should  think  that  that  was  just 
like  him." 

"  Yes  ;  isn't  he  delightful  ?  "  said  Annabel.  "  And 
such  a  good  man,  too  ! " 

Jocelyn  suffered  a  distinct  shock.  "  A  good  man  ?" 
he  queried  doubtfully. 

"  Very  good,"  she  said,  looking  at  him.  "  Hero, 
saint,  martyr,  anything  you  like.  With  his  bad  points 
too  ;  a  little  irascibility,  a  good  deal  of  obstinacy,  and 
a  faculty  which  many  a  saint  might  envy,  of  always 
putting  himself  in  the  lowest  place." 

Her  voice  sank  to  a  tenderness  which  startled  Jocelyn 
and  moved  him  too.  What  did  it  mean  ?  She  did 
not  surely  love  this  man  of  whom  she  spoke  so  lov- 
ingly ?  And  did  she  speak  indeed  of  the  man  that 
Mr.  Clissold  had  crudely  designated  a  scoundrel  and 
a  scamp  ? 

She  looked  up,  and  saw  some  doubt,  some  astonish- 
ment, in  his  eyes. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  thinking,"  she  said,  blush- 
ing a  little,  but  trying  hard  to  be  courageous  on  Eu- 
gene Lechmere's  account.  "You  have  heard  him  evil 
spoken  of,  and  you  don't  know  whether  I  or  his  de- 
tractor can  be  right." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  it.  But,  of  course,  you  must  be 
right,"  said  Jocelyn. 


1 92  Daunay's  Tower. 

"Now,  that  is  illogical,"  she  said,  gravely  regarding 
him.  "  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  be  right, 
more  than  anybody  else.  I  know  that  people  speak 
against  Dr.  Lechmere.  I  know  that  there  was  a  time 
in  his  life  when  he  was  wild  and  reckless,  and  did 
things  that  he  afterwards  repented.  But  every  one 
who  lives  a  trne  life  does  things  that  have  to  be  re- 
pented afterwards." 

"  Men — not  women." 

"Oh,  nonsense!"  said  Annabel.  "Women  are 
human  beings  too ;  they  have  not  a  monopoly  of  good- 
ness. Indeed,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  a  man's 
goodness,  when  he  is  good,  transcends  a  woman's  good- 
ness as  wine  transcends  water  ;  that  he  is  heroic  where 
she  is  simply  maudlin  ;  that,  in  fact,  when  he  chooses, 
a  man's  goodness  'caps  all,'  as  they  say  in  Cumber- 
land." 

It  was  Lechmere's  own  expression.  Jocelyn  did  not 
know  why  he  felt  a  throb  of  pain  at  hearing  it  from 
her  lips. 

"You  make  one  wish  to  be  good,  when  you  speak 
of  a  man's  goodness  in  that  way,"  he  said,  in  a  graver 
tone  than  he  had  yet  adopted.  "  The  goodness  you 
admire  would  never  be  insipid,  at  any  rate." 

Her  laughter  rippled  out  upon  the  air  like  the  music 
of  a  brook. 

"Dr.  Eugene's  goodness  is  not  insipid,  you  may  be 
sure  of  that,"  she  said.  "  It  consists  in  simply  laying 
down  his  life  for  the  poor.  There  is  no  insipidity  in 
that,  is  there  ?  " 

"Certainly  not.  But  every  one  can't  do  it  ;  it  isn't 
the  vocation  of  every  man." 

"  No.     I  am  sorry  for  the  other  men." 


Jocelyn's  Defeat.  193 

A  silence  fell  between  them.  Annabel,  with  the 
roses  in  her  hand,  stood,  looking  dreamily  out  into  the 
distance  ;  Jocelyn  leaned  on  the  gate  with  his  eyea 
upon  her  face.  Surely,  here  was  the  realization  of  all 
his  dreams  ;  the  woman  who  was  his  ideal  stood  before 
him  in  the  flesh.  He  thought  of  Lenore  Wycherly, 
and  shivered.  "  Here,"  he  might  well  have  said,  "  is 
the  one  maid  for  me."  He  was  as  certain  of  Annabel's 
nobility  of  character  as  of  her  manifest  beauty  ;  no 
doubt  was  possible  on  either  point. 

Who  was  she  9  That  was  the  question  that  troubled 
him.  He  could  not  go  away  until  it  was  resolved. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said,  reluctantly,  at  last,  " that  I 
must  go  back  to  High  Bigg." 

"  Yes,  if  yon  mean  to  see  Dr.  Lechmere,  you  must," 
said  Annabel. 

"  I  may  tell  him  that  you  counseled  me  to  ask  him  ?  " 

'•  Oh,  of  course." 

"That  you  said  he  would  know  whether  I  might 
speak  to  Miss  Arnold,  and  whether  it  would  do  her  any 
harm  ?  " 

"Exactly.  Dr.  Lechmere  is  very  arbitrary;  he 
will  say  what  he  means,  at  any  cost." 

"  And — excuse  me — who  shall  I  say  has  given  me  the 
advice  to  consult  him  on  the  subject  ?  " 

"  Why,  Miss  Arnold's  niece,  of  course."  There  was 
a  naughty  sparkle  in  Annabel's  violet  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  Miss  Arnold  has  more  than  one  niece  ?  " 

"  No,  only  one.  You  can  tell  Dr.  Lechmere  that 
you  talked  to  Annabel  ?  " 

"  Annabel  !  "  said  Jocelyn,  helplessly. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Arnold's  niece,  Annabel.  Or,  if  you 
want  my  full  name,  Annabel  Daunay,"  said  the  girl, 


194  Daunay's  Tower. 

with  extreme  distinctness  and  an  unmistakable  hauteur 
in  her  voice. 

Jocelyn  turned  and  fled,  he  could  not  help  it ;  he  had 
made,  as  he  reflected  on  his  headlong  rush  along  the 
road  to  the  village  of  High  Rigg,  such  a  donkey,  such 
an  egregious  ass,  such  a  ridiculous  fool  of  himself  ! 

For,  at  first  sight,  had  he  not  fallen  head  over  heels 
in  love  with  Annabel  Daunay,  the  girl  who  was  prepared 
to  "  fight  him,  tooth  and  nail "  ? 


A  Friendly  Suit.  195 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A   FRIENDLY   SUIT. 

"  GOOD  evening,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere,  in  a  somewhat 
frosty  manner.  "  I  hope  that  you  have  had  a  pleasant 
day." 

"  Yes  ;  very  pleasant,"  replied  Jocelyn,  stupidly. 

The  doctor  thought  that,  in  spite  of  his  good  looks, 
he  had  a  very  foolish  air.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  the 
young  man  was  suffering  intensely  from  the  conviction 
of  his  own  insensate  folly.  But  Dr.  Lechmere  could 
not  be  expected  to  know  that. 

"  These  young  fellows,"  reflected  the  doctor,  "  think 
that  they  can  get  through  the  world  without  brains, 
whereas,  neither  wealth,  position,  nor  advantages  of 
any  kind  can  make  up  for  the  want  of  them.  Without 
brains,"  he  added,  cynically,  "  I  suppose  I  should  have 
gone  under  long  ago." 

"  Sit  down,"  he  said  to  his  guest.  "I  don't  often 
have  visitors,  and  I  must  beg  to  remind  yon  that  this 
visit  is  of  your  own  seeking — not  mine." 

"  You  mean  you  would  rather  not  have  me/'  said 
Jocelyn. 

"Personally  I  have  no  objection,"  said  Dr.  Lech- 
mere, with  a  laugh  in  his  eyes.  "  But  there  are  two 
things  against  it  :  first  of  all,  the  world  might  call  us 
conspirators,  for  you  are  on  one  side  and  I  am  on  the 
other,  and  who  knows  whether  we  are  not  engaged  in 
trying  to  defeat  the  ends  of  justice  ?  Secondly,  Mr. 


196  Daunay's  Tower. 

Clissold  has  probably  warned  you  that  I  am  an  un- 
scrupulous person,  of  extremely  bad  character  :  there- 
fore " — with  a  quick  look  at  Jocelyn's  rather  shamed- 
faced  countenance — "  I  am  rather  surprised  that  you 
sought  me  out  at  all." 

"  You  have  an  uncanny  knack  of  guessing  the  inner- 
most thoughts  of  one's  heart,"  said  Jocelyn  ;  "but  I 
don't  say  that  you  always  guess  rightly.  I  don't  think 
Clissold  knows  you  at  all." 

"  But  I  know  Clissold,"  said  the  doctor,  significantly. 
"  It  is  a  good  many  years  since  I  met  him,  but  we  had 
some  dealings  when  I  was  about  your  age — centuries 
ago.  Now,  what  will  you  take  ?  " 

They  were  in  the  doctor's  study,  and  he  produced 
from  a  sideboard  a  bottle  of  whisky  and  some  soda- 
water.  "  I  cannot  offer  yon  anything  so  good  as  Mrs. 
Grier's  cherry-brandy,"  he  said  ;  "  but  such  as  I  have 
you  are  welcome  to." 

' '  I  suppose  you  smoke,"  said  Jocelyn,  producing  his 
own  cigar-case. 

"  I  don't  smoke  much,"  said  the  doctor,  "  and  when 
I  do,  I  really  prefer  a  pipe.  But  I  approve  of  tobacco 
from  a  medical  point  of  view  :  it  soothes  the  nerves 
after  a  hard  day's  work." 

"You  have  a  large  practise  here,  I  suppose,"  said 
Jocelyn,  leaning  back  in  the  only  comfortable  chair  in 
the  room,  while  Dr.  Lechmere  routed  out  his  pipe  on 
the  mantelpiece  and  made  rather  a  business  of  find- 
ing matches  and  tobacco.  It  struck  Jocelyn  that  he 
was  not  quite  at  ease,  in  spite  of  his  indifferent  man- 
ner :  he  was  more  restless  and  less  self-assured  than  he 
had  been  on  the  previous  evening. 

"A  good  many  people  send  for  me  ;  yes,"  said  Dr, 


A  Friendly  Suit.  197 

Lechinere,  "  but  I  am  not  on  the  register,  you  know. 
I  got  knocked  off  a  good  many  years  ago,  so  I  suppose 
some  people  would  say  I  had  no  business  to  practise. 
It  doesn't  seem  to  make  much  difference  in  this  part  of 
the  world."  He  seemed  rather  bent  on  making  the 
worst  of  himself,  and  Jocelyn  wondered  why.  He  felt 
that  all  this  conversation  was  mere  preliminary  fenc- 
ing, and  that  the  real  subject  near  their  hearts  would 
have  to  be  tackled  in  good  earnest  by  and  by.  It  was 
not,  however,  until  Dr.  Lechmere  had  finally  lighted 
his  pipe  and  was  settled  near  his  desk  in  a  high-backed 
oak  chair,  with  his  legs  crossed  and  his  head  thrown 
back  in  apparent  enjoyment  of  the  firelight  and  to- 
bacco, that  he  said  in  his  usual  abrupt  voice,  "  What 
do  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"I  want  your  "help,"  said  Jocelyn. 

"  My  help  ;  powers  above  us  !  What  possible  help 
do  you  suppose  I  can  be  to  you  ?  As  I  have  before 
remarked,  I  am  on  the  other  side." 

"  I  have  seen  Miss  Dan  nay,"  said  Jocelyn,  in  an  ap- 
parently irrelevant  manner. 

Eugene  Lechmere's  eye  glinted  at  the  name  given  to 
Annabel,  but  he  only  sat  still,  without  moving  a  muscle 
of  his  face. 

"Well  ?" 

"And  I  think,"  said  Jocelyn,  "that  it  is  very  ao- 
surd  that  there  should  be  any  difficulty  between  us." 

"  You  have  got  on  rather  fast,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere. 
"  I  am  afraid  I  don't  quite  follow  you." 

" What  I  mean  is  this/'  said  Jocelyn.  "It  is  only 
necessary  to  see  her  to  be  sure  that  she  is  not — what  I 
thought  her — nor  what  Mr.  Clissold  represented  her  to 
be " 


198  Daunay's  Tower. 

"'Not  an  impostor,  you  mean  ?  "  said  the  doctor. 

"  Exactly  !  One  sees  that  she  is  all  that  is  good  and 
beautiful,"  said  the  young  man,  looking  into  the  fire  ; 
"  and  one  is  not  inclined  to  resist  any  just  claim  made 
on  her  behalf." 

"  You  are  laying  down  your  arms  very  soon,"  said 
Dr.  Lechmere,  quietly.  "  It  is  a  good  thing  Mr. 
Clissold  is  not  here  to  listen  to  your  speech.  You  must 
remember  that  nobody  wants  you  to  give  up  everything 
that  is  rightfully  yours  out  of  chivalry  because  the 
young  lady  happens  to  be  charming.  I  did  not  know 
that  our  opponent  would  prove  such  a  knight-errant." 

"I  am  not  a  fool,"  said  Jocelyn,  hastily.  "  I  don't 
want  to  surrender  what  is  mine,  in  justice  as  well  as 
in  law,  but  you  know  very  well  that  there  is  a  good  deal 
of  difference  between  law  and  justice  :  and  I  know 
nothing  as  yet  of  the  facts  of  the  case,  and  of  the  proofs 
that  you  may  hold  of  Miss  Daunay's  identity  ;  but  I 
came  here  with  the  impression  that  you  were  all  leagued 
together  in  some  sort  of  plot  to  obtain  Mr.  Daunay's 
money,  and  I  have  relinquished  that  idea — that  is 
all " 

"  And  why  have  you  relinquished  that  idea  ?  "  said 
Dr.  Lechmere,  giving  him  one  of  his  keenest  looks. 
"  Because  you  have  talked  for  a  few  minutes  to  a  girl, 
who  happens  to  be  pretty,  but  about  whose  character 
yon  know  absolutely  nothing  ! " 

"  I  have  the  testimony  of  my  own  eyes  and  ears.  I 
am  perfectly  sure  that  she  is  as  innocent  of  any  plot  or 
scheme  for  gaining  money  by  dishonest  means  as  a  baby 
or  an  angel  from  heaven.  If  you  like  me  to  speak 
more  plainly,  I  say  I  would  stake  my  life  upon  her 
truth  and  integrity.  I  would  thrash  any  man  who  said 


A  Friendly  Suit.  199 

a  word  against  her/'  said  Jocelyn,  rising  from  his 
chair  in  bis  excitement,  and  drawing  himself  to  his  full 
height,  while  a  boyish  flush  mantled  his  cheek. 

'•'  Well,  so  would  I  for  the  matter  of  that,"  said  the 
doctor  quietly.  "  But  that  is  not  to  the  purpose  ;  she 
may  be  perfectly  innocent,  yet  simply  the  tool  of  de- 
signing people  around  her  who  wish  to  lay  their  hands 
upon  old  John  Daunay's  money.  Here  am  I,  you  see,  a 
needy  practitioner,  with  Heaven  knows  what  sort  of  a 
record  behind  me,  pining,  no  doubt,  for  money  to  spend 
on  my  own  gratification,  and  thinking  it  a  capital  spec- 
ulation to  put  forward  this  young  orphan  girl  as  a 
claimant  to  the  Daunay  property.  Why,  Mr.  Clissold 
would  say  that  my  motive  was  evident."  His  face  was 
as  hard  as  stone,  and  his  eye  glittered  strangely,  but 
the  veiled  irony  of  his  tone  roused  Jocelyn's  indignation. 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  you,  of  course,"  he  said, 
seating  himself  again  and  looking  calmly  at  Dr.  Lech- 
mere's  impassive  face  ;  "  but  I  know  this,  that  if  you 
are  as  great  a  rogue  as  you  make  yourself  out  to  be,  you 
would  never  have  imposed  on  Miss  Daunay  so  far  as  to 
make  her  call  you  a  good  man." 

"  A  good  man,"  repeated  Lechmere,  meditatively. 
"  That's  a  two-edged  kind  of  compliment — suggests  a 
rather  mawkish  kind  of  person  sometimes  ;  and  Miss 
Daunay,  as  you  very  rightly  call  her,  may  be  making  a 
mistake." 

"  She  said  she  had  known  you  all  her  life,"  said 
Jocelyn. 

The  rigidity  of  the  doctor's  face  suddenly  broke  up  ; 
he  laughed  a  little,  and  changed  his  position  to  an 
easier  one. 

"  So  you  are  going  to  take  me  on  Miss  Annabel's  rec- 


2oo  Daunay's  Tower. 

ommendation,  are  you?"  he  said.  "You  do  it  at 
your  own  risk,  you  know  ;  and  you  will  excuse  me  for 
saying,  you  seem  to  be  of  a  remarkably  confiding  dis- 
position. " 

"  I  don't  mean  that  I  do  not  want  you  to  produce 
proofs  just  as  much  as  I  did  before,  but  I  wish  to  sug- 
gest that  there  surely  need  be  no  long,  expensive  law- 
suit, and  that  there  is  no  necessity  that  we  should  fight 
it  out,  tooth  and  nail,  as  you  kindly  expressed  it  last 
night." 

"  An  amicable  suit — eh  ?"  said  the  doctor  musingly. 
' '  Well,  of  course,  that  would  be  a  more  sensible  way, 
and  I  don't  think  I  can  be  wrong  in  telling  you  a  few 
details  of  which  I  myself  am  absolutely  certain."  And 
laying  down  his  pipe,  he  proceeded  in  a  clear  and  busi- 
nesslike manner  to  recount  the  main  points  of  the  story 
which  he  and  Jane  Arnold  had  discussed  before  he  wrote 
his  letter  to  Mr.  Clissold,  up  to  the  point  when  Mr. 
Daunay  paid  his  last  visit  to  the  Tower  and  interviewed 
Annabel  at  the  Moorside  Farm. 

"  There/'  he  said,  when  he  had  finished,  "  I  can 
swear  to  all  that,  and  so  can  Jane  Arnold.  There  is 
not  the  faintest  doubt  that  it  was  this  girl  who  was 
born  at  Daunay's  Tower  and  brought  up  by  her  mother's 
stepsister.  Old  John  Daunay  recognized  her  as  his 
daughter  in  Miss  Arnold's  presence,  and  you  yourself 
know  that  he  spoke  of  her  in  the  same  way." 

"Then  why  did  he  tell  me  that  she  was  dead  ?" 
cried  Jocelyn. 

Dr.  Lechmere  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Sheer  malice,  I  believe.  She  had  displeased  him, 
and  he  had  plainly  told  her  that  he  intended  to  cut  her 
off." 


A  Friendly  Suit.  201 

"What  for  ?"  demanded  Jocelyn. 

"  You  had  better  ask  Miss  Daunay  that  when  you 
know  her  a  little  better,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere,  with  a 
provoking  smile.  "  She  was  not  so  subservient  as  he 
wished  ;  that  was  the  main  point  of  disagreement.  In 
my  opinion,  she  was  perfectly  right." 

"  There  seems  no  doubt,"  said  Jocelyn,  slowly,  "  that 
she  was  Mr.  Daunay's  daughter  ?" 

'•  Xot  the  least  in  the  world,  I  should  say.  Do  you 
want  me  to  put  my  finger  on  the  weak  point  for  you  ? 
Mr.  Clissold  will  have  indicated  it  already." 

"The  question  of  her  mother's  marriage?"  said 
Jocelyn,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Yes,  that's  the  point ;  and  I  may  as  well  tell  you 
frankly,  that  we  have  not  yet  succeeded  in  finding  any 
record  of  the  marriage.  Of  course,  Mr.  Clissold  may 
find  it  amongst  John  Daunay's  papers,  or  we  may  obtain 
it  by  advertising  for  a  copy.  There  must  be  plenty  of 
parish  clerks  who  would  be  willing  to  earn  a  guinea  or 
two  by  searching  the  registers  ;  besides,  if  money  is  no 
object,  you  could  depute  some  one  to  search  every 
register  in  the  kingdom,  as  well  as  the  books  at  Somer- 
set House." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Jocelyn  ;  "and  I  have  no  doubt 
of  its  being  ultimately  found." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  or  two.  Dr.Lechmere 
looked  at  his  companion  quizzically  for  a  minute  or  two, 
and  then  spoke  in  a  slow,  meditative  voice — 

"You  are  a  very  curious  specimen,  you  know,  Mr. 
Jocelyn  Daunay  !  I  don't  know  whether  you'll  feel 
flattered  if  I  say  that  I  am  not  sure  that  I  ever  came 
across  any  one  with  so  little  self-interest.  You  really 
give  me  the  impression  that  you  might  be  rather  pleased 


2O2  Daunay's  Tower. 

than  otherwise  if  that  marriage  certificate  were 
found." 

"  Well,  naturally,"  said  Jocelyn.  "  Why  should  I 
want  that  poor  girl  to  suffer  any  injury  ?" 

"  By  the  terms  of  the  will,"  said  the  doctor,  "  every 
penny  goes  to  Annabel  if  she  is  the  legitimate  daughter 
of  John  Daunay . " 

"  So  it  should,"  said  Jocelyn,  stoutly  ;  "  and  I  shall 
be  no  worse  off  than  I  was  before.  I  have  a  clerkship 
in  the  Foreign  Office,"  he  explained  simply.  "It  is 
lucky  for  me  that  I  did  not  throw  it  up ;  I  shall  just 
go  back  to  my  work  again." 

"  Yon  seem  to  be  made  of  the  right  sort  of  stuff," 
said  Dr.  Lechmere.  "  But,  on  the  other  hand  " — he 
stood  erect  and  observed  the  young  man  closely — "  on 
the  other  hand,  supposing  no  certificate  can  be  found, 
and  the  law  declares  Annabel's  claim  to  be  null  and 
void,  and  you  yourself  are  to  continue  in  possession  of 
the  estate,  may  I  ask  what  you  intend  to  do  then  ?  " 

"I  have  scarcely  thought,"  said  Jocelyn.  "But  I 
think  there  may  be  ways  of  managing  the  matter.  For 
instance,  she  might  perhaps  consent  to  divide  the 
property  with  me  ;  being  Mr.  Daunay's  daughter,  she 
certainly  has  a  greater  claim  to  it  than  I  have.  Or,  in- 
deed, if  she  would  take  the  whole  of  it  I  should  prefer  it. 
I  don't  like  the  idea  of  robbing  a  girl  of  her  fortune." 

"  Bravo  ! "  said  Lechmere,  somewhat  satirically. 
"  But  I  doubt  whether  she  would  take  it." 

"  Well,  there  is  another  way.  I  know  it's  great  pre- 
sumption for  me  to  speak  of  it,  and  I  shall  ask  you  to 
respect  my  confidence  for  the  present ;  but  would  not 
the  easiest  way  out  of  the  difficulty  be  for  Annabel  to 
marry  me  ?  " 


A  Friendly  Suit.  203 

He  asked  the  question  with  so  delightfully  naive  a 
mixture  of  shyness  and  self-assurance  that  Eugene 
threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  aloud. 
"You  go  very  far  and  very  fast,  my  dear  fellow," 
he  said  at  length.  "  I  suppose  yon  are  not  aware  that 
Miss  Annabel  has  refused  you  already  ?  " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  Jocelyn,  opening  his  eyes.  • 

"  Surely,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere,  laughing  in  spite  of 
himself,  "  the  old  man  told  you  that  that  was  his  pet 
project  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  said  something  about  it  to  me,"  admitted 
Jocelyn,  reluctantly  ;  "  but  I  was  never  quite  sure  how 
far  he  was  in  earnest,  and,  of  course,  when  he  told  me 
she  was  dead  I  believed  him  ;  in  fact,  I  thought  myself 
well  out  of  the  difficulty.  You  see,  I'd  not  seen  her 
then." 

"That  makes  all  the  difference,"  said  Lechmere, 
rather  cynically.  "  Well,  if  you  want  to  know  what 
the  quarrel  was  about,  it  was  all  on  your  account.  Old 
John  Daunay  was  the  most  arbitrary  of  men  ;  he  came 
here  offering  Annabel  a  home  in  London,  jewels,  dresses, 
amusements,  everything  the  heart  of  woman  is  sup- 
posed to  desire,  but  with  one  condition  attached,  and 
that  Avas  she  should  marry  the  man  he  chose  for  her. 
And  that  man  happened  to  be  yourself." 

ft  And  she  refused  me  ?  "  said  Jocelyn,  looking  so 
comically  taken  aback  that  the  doctor  laughed  again. 

"  Yes,  refused  you,"  said  the  doctor,  with  evident 
relish  ;  "  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  you  ;  chose 
rather  to  live  in  a  farmhouse  with  an  old  and  ailing 
woman,  and  no  prospect  but  that  of  turning  out  into 
the  world  and  earning  her  own  living  when  Jane 
Arnold  dies.  She  chose  that  very  dreary  and  rather 


2O4  Daunay's  Tower. 

unattractive  life  rather  than  marry  Mr.  Jocelyn  Daunay. 
How  does  that  strike  you  ?    Rather  a  blow  to  one's  in-' 
nocent  vanity,  is  it  not  ?  "  said  Dr.    Lechmere,  with  a 
zest  which  seemed  to  Jocelyn  rather  inhuman. 

"  I  shall  try  to  make  her  change  her  mind,"  said 
Jocelyn,  starting  up  with  a  resolute  air. 

"  It  will  not  be  so  easy,"  said  the  doctor.  "  What 
business  have  you  to  say  that  you  can  win  her  ?  She  is 
not  a  woman  who  will  sell  herself  to  you  for  your 
wealth." 

"  Oh,  confound  the  wealth  !  "  said  Jocelyn,  sitting 
down  again.  "I  wish  old  Daunay's  money  was  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea." 

"  In  which  case,"  said  the  doctor,  "  you  would 
probably  never  have  realized  the  existence  of  Annabel 
Daunay  at  all." 

"  If  I  had  but  met  her  in  a  casual  way,  without  any 
of  these  ridiculous  questions  between  us,"  groaned  the 
young  man,  ' ( I  should  have  had  a  much  better  chance. 
Look  here,  it's  no  good  hiding  the  fact,  I  never  in  my 
life  met  anybody  so  lovely  and  so  lovable  as  she  seems 
to  be.  I  know  it  must  seem  very  sudden,  but  I  had  not 
seen  her  five  minutes  before  I  said  to  myself,  This  is 
the  girl  that  I  should  like  to  make  my  wife." 

"Sudden,  indeed,"  said  the  doctor,  turning  aside  a 
little.  He  looked  grave  enough  now  and  a  little  pale, 
as  though  Jocelyn's  words  had  forced  his  thoughts  into 
a  painful  channel.  "  So  sudden,"  he  went  on  slowly, 
"  that  one  scarcely  knows  as  yet  whether  to  attach 
much  value  to  your  declaration,  young  man.  I  have 
known  Annabel  all  her  life  ;  I  have  helped,  in  my 
small  way,  to  teach  her,  and  to  form  her  mind  and  her 
tastes,  and  I  can  honestly  say  that  I  don't  think  that 


A  Friendly  Suit.  205 

there  is  a  girl  in  the  world  better  worth  the  winning, 
l^ut  if  you  want  her  yon  will  have  to  gain  her  heart 
first.  You  may  be  as  rich  as  Croasus,  but  she  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  you  unless  she  had  given  you 
her  love." 

"  Why,  that's  the  only  kind  of  girl  worth  winning/' 
cried  Jocelyn. 

And  Eugene  Lechmere  gave  him  a  kindlier  look 
than  his  critical  eyes  had  as  yet  bestowed  upon  the 
young  man  who  so  rashly  avowed  himself,  on  half  an 
hour's  acquaintance,  a  suitor  for  Annabel's  hand. 


206  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  VIEWS  OF  YOUNG  AND   OLD. 

JOCELYN  returned  to  town  next  day  by  Dr.  Lech- 
mere's  advice.  It  was  an  odd  sort  of  friendship  which 
had  arisen  between  them;  for,  as  the  doctor  dryly 
pointed  out,  by  all  the  rules  of  the  game  they  ought  to 
have  been  bitter  enemies. 

"You  came  here,"  he  said,  "  with  the  avowed  object 
of  proving  a  superior  claim  to  the  property  which  I 
thought  that  my  young  friend  ought  to  enjoy.  I,  be- 
ing interested  in  her,  and  not  at  all  in  you,  am  natu- 
rally entirely  on  her  side,  and  intend  to  fight  you,  if 
necessary,  by  all  means  in  my  power — fair  or  foul. 
You  came  here  to  spy  out  the  land,  with  the  conviction 
that  we  were  all  a  set  of  rank  impostors,  and  with  the 
worst  possible  opinion  of  myself,  and  then  you  have  the 
audacity  to  inform  me  that  you  wish  to  marry  your 
cousin — if  she  is  your  cousin — and  thus  make  an  ar- 
rangement which  will,  no  doubt,  be  very  convenient  to 
yourself,  but,  in  all  probability,  highly  damaging  to 
me." 

"Why  damaging  to  you?"  said  Jocelyn,  with  a 
laugh.  The  doctor's  dry  humor  was  attractive. 

"  Because  you  will  inevitably  quarrel  with  me  in  the 
long  run,"  said  Eugene  Lechmere.  "  You  will  say 
that  I  stood  in  your  way,  and  Annabel  will  reproach  me 
for  keeping  her  in  the  dark  as  much  as  I  have  done. 


The  Views  of  Young  And  Old.     207 

And  whether  you  end  by  being  happy  or  miserable,  I 
shall  have  to  go  to  the  wall." 

Jocelyn  glanced  up  at  him  quickly.  Lechmere's 
tone  was  as  light  as  ever,  and  there  was  the  suggestion  of 
a  smile,  although  of  a  jeering  kind,  in  his  brilliant  eyes. 
But  something  in  the  lines  of  his  face,  or  the  dropping 
of  his  voice  at  the  end  of  his  sentence,  gave  Jocelyn 
the  impression  that  a  little  pain  lurked  under  that  in- 
tense vivacity.  Jocelyn  at  once  proceeded  to  take  the 
bull  by  the  horns. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  you're  awfully  clever  and  I 
don't  pretend  always  to  understand  you,  but  I  think 
it's  awful  rot  that  we  shall  quarrel  with  you  just  be- 
cause you  are  doing  all  you  can  to  help  Annabel.  From 
what  she  said  yesterday,  I  am  sure  she  would  have  been 
very  badly  off  without  you.  And  as  for  what  old 
Clissold  said  to  me,  why,  we  all  know  that  there  are 
very  few  men  whose  lives  can  bear  close  inspection  in 
every  respect.  At  any  rate,  however  bad  a  scandal  he 
was  alluding  to,  it  was  a  long  time  ago,  and  I  don't 
know  in  the  least  what  it  is.  And  I  think  we  might 
start  fair."  He  held  out  his  hand,  but  it  was  with 
a  rather  doubtful,  enigmatic  look  that  Dr.  Lechmere 
placed  his  own  within  it. 

"  As  I  have  said  before,  it  is  at  your  own  risk,"  he 
remarked.  "  I  don't  pretend  to  be  any  better  than  I 
am.  As  for  Annabel's  ideas  of  me,  you  know  how  trust- 
ful and  unsuspicious  a  young  girl  can  be.  And,  natur- 
ally, one  turns  the  best  side  of  one's  self  towards  her." 

"When  one  has  a  best  side  to  turn,"  said  Jocelyn. 
"  And  if  you  have  been  a  friend  to  Annabel,  I  hope  you 
will  be  one  to  me." 

"That  will  depend  on  Annabel  rather  than  on  your- 


208  Daunay's  Tower. 

self/'  said  the  doctor.     "  I  am  her  bond-slave,  as  a 
good  many  of  us  are  in  this  part  of  the  world." 

"  And  as  I  am  already,"  said  Jocelyn  heartily. 
"  Don't  you  think  I  might  run  up  to  the  farm  and  see 
her  once  again  ?  " 

"Decidedly  not,"  said  the  doctor.  "Go  back  to 
London  and  see  whether  you  can  find  that  certificate. 
That's  the  best  thing  you  can  do.  If  she  learns  that 
you  are  here  under  an  assumed  name,  will  she  like  you 
any  the  better,  do  you  think  ?  In  my  opinion,  you 
had  better  clear  out  as  fast  as  you  can,  and  not  come 
back  until  you  are  prepared  to  come  in  your  own 
name." 

"How  can  I  do  that?"  said  Jocelyn.  "She  will 
hate  me  as  I  am  unless  I  can,  first  of  all,  do  something 
to  prove  I  am  not  the  cad  she  evidently  takes  me  for." 

"  Prove  it,  prove  it,  then,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Easy 
enough  to  do  that,  is  it  not  ?  And,  by  the  way,  as  you 
are  in  legal  possession  of  Daunay's  Tower  for  the 
present,  I  wish  you  would  send  some  workmen  in  before 
the  whole  place  tumbles  down  entirely." 

"  Mr.  Clissold  suggested  that  I  should  send  down  a 
capable  man  to  make  an  estimate  of  what  is  required," 
said  Jocelyn  eagerly.  "  But  am  I  justified  in  doing 
that  before  this  affair  is  settled  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  think  something  will  have  to  be  clone  or  the 
roof  will  come  tumbling  about  your  ears,"  said  the 
doctor.  "  Clissold  has  plenty  of  authority  to  do  it  on 
his  own  account  if  you  don't  like  to  take  the  responsi- 
bility. But  if  you  are  really  in  earnest,  if  you  mean 
that  you  want  to  prove  Annabel's  right  to  her  father's 
name  why  don't  you  institute  a  search  at  Daunay's 
Tower  for  the  missing  papers  ?  Annabel's  mother  died 


The  Views  of  Young  And  Old.     209 

there.     It  is  quite  possible  that  she  left  boxes  or  pack- 
ages, in  one  of  which  we  might  find  the  lost  certificate," 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  said  Jocclyn,  his  face  lighten- 
ing. "  Do  you  think  she  would  mind  it  very  much  if  I 
came  down  in  my  own  name,  I  mean,  and  with  my  sister, 
for  a  few  days,  or  would  it  look  too  much  like  taking 
possession  ?  " 

11  Shall  I  ask  her  ?  "  said  the  doctor. 

"  Yes,  ask  her  ;  ask  her,  by  all  means.  Let  her 
know  we  wish  to  be  friendly,"  said  the  young  man  pit- 
eously ;  "  that  we  do  not  want  to  harm  her,  or  keep 
her  out  of  what  ought  to  be  hers.  However  the  matter 
turns  out,  she  can  still  consider  us  her  kinsfolk  and  her 
friends." 

"  All  very  well.  But  Annabel  may  not  take  the  same 
view  of  it,"  said  the  doctor  to  himself,  when  he  had 
parted  from  Jocelyn  and  was  taking  his  accustomed 
drive  to  the  farm.  He  was  very  anxious  to  know  what 
Annabel  thought  of  her  visitor  of  the  day  before. 

She  met  him,  as  ususal,  in  the  garden  ;  but  it  was 
not  a  sunny  day,  and  the  wind  was  blowing  the  leaves 
from  the  trees  and  scattering  the  petals  of  the  roses. 
Was  it  for  this  reason  that  he  thought  she  looked  a  lit- 
tle pale,  a  little  wistful,  as  if  she  had  discovered  that 
there  was  something  wanting  in  her  joyless  life  ?  She 
gave  him  her  hand  almost  in  silence,  and  he  held  it  a 
moment  longer  than  he  need  have  done  while  he 
looked  into  her  face  "  Why,  Annabel/'  he  said  kindly, 
for  it  was  only  too  evident  that  the  tears  were  very 
near  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  Dr.  Eugene,"  she  said,  a  little  brokenly, 
"  Aunt  Jane  has  been  talking  to  me.  She  has  told  me 
everything." 


2io  Daunay's  Tower. 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  not  very  much  to  tell,  my 
dear,"  said  the  doctor.  He  very  seldom  used  a  caress- 
ing word  to  her.  He  dared  not  do  it.  But  on  this 
occasion  it  seemed  only  natural  and  right.  She  had  so 
few  to  care  for  her,  so  few  to  give  her  a  kindly  word. 

"I  always  knew  you  had  done  a  good  deal  for  me/' 
she  said,  a  little  shyly,  "  but  I  never  realized  till  now 
how  much  trouble  you  have  taken  about  me  at  different 
times  and  how  much  annoyance  you  must  have  had  to 
put  up  with." 

"  Annoyance  ?  "  he  said,  with  some  surprise.  "  But 
I  never  had  any  annoyance.  You  brought  a  good  deal 
of  sunshine  into  my  life." 

"  From  what  Aunt  Jane  says,"  the  girl  went  on, 
"  I  think  my  father  must  have  been  very  unkind  and 
disagreeable  to  you  sometimes.  I  did  not  know  before 
that  you  wrote  to  him  about  the  masters  I  had  from 
Carlisle.  Oh,  there  are  a  great  many  things  Aunt  Jane 
has  been  telling  me  that  I  never  dreamed  of  before. 
And  you  saw  my  poor  mother  before  she  died." 

"  Your  aunt  has  been  telling  you  a  great  deal,"  said 
Dr.  Lech  mere  gravely.  "  How  did  that  come  about  ?" 

"  Oh,  through  the  visit  of  that  young  man  whom  you 
sent  up  yesterday.  He  came  from  London — from  the 
lawyers,  on  business,  he  said.  Is  he  coming  again  ? 
I  told  him  he  had  better  ask  your  permission  before  he 
saw  Aunt  Jane." 

"  He  has  gone  back  to  London,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  I  don't  think  your  aunt  is  well  enough  to  be  troubled 
with  matters  of  business  ;  they  can  all  be  settled  just 
as  well  by  correspondence.  Did  this  young  man  leave 
his  name  ?  " 

"  No,  I  forgot  to  ask  his  name,"  said  Annabel.     '•'  It 


The  Views  of  Young  And  Old.     211 

was  curious  that  he  did  not  give  it.  We  had  quite  a 
long  chat  in  the  garden  before  he  went  away." 

"  H'm  !     What  sort  of  a  fellow  was  he  ?  " 

"  Very  nice,  I  think,"  Annabel  answered.  And,  a 
little  to  Dr.  Lechmere's  surprise,  a  faint  tinge  of  color 
crept  into  her  cheek.  "  He  was  one  of  those  people 
who  make  you  feel  at  once  as  if  you  had  known  them  a 
very  long  time.  I  had  quite  to  pull  myself  up  and  re- 
mind myself  that  he  was  not  an  old  friend."  She 
wondered  why  Dr.  Lechmere  sighed. 

"  Ah,  well,"  he  said,  ' '  he  was  young,  you  see,  and 
you  are  young,  and  there  is  always  a  bond  of  .union. 
You  have  lived  so  much  with  older  people  that  you 
hardly  know  the  pleasure  of  having  friends  of  your  own 
age." 

"  Perhaps  that  was  it,"  said  Annabel.  "  But  I  have 
seen  some  young  people  whom  I  don't  like  at  all,  espe- 
cially some  young  men.  I  thought  he  was  really  rather 
nice.  Didn't  you  like  him,  yourself,  Dr.  Lechmere  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  was  all  very  well  for  a  lawyer's  clerk,"  said 
Dr.  Lechmere.  "But  I  have  something  else  to  ask 
you,  Annabel.  In  fact,- it  was  one  of  the  things  which 
he  was  deputed  to  speak  about,  only,  as  he  could  not  see 
your  aunt,  he  confided  the  nature  of  his  business  tome. 
It  concerns  you  chiefly,  so,  perhaps,  he  scarcely  liked 
to  introduce  the  subject."  He  wondered  at  the  clever- 
ness with  which  he  was  interweaving  fiction  and  truth, 
and  sincerely  hoped  that  Annabel  would  not  be  very 
much  shocked  when  she  ultimately  learnt  the  facts  of 
the  case.  He  continued  in  a  dry,  businesslike  tone : 
"  Now  that  Miss  Arnold  has  told  you  all  about  your 
position,  you  will  see  that  there  are  a  good  many  diffi- 
culties before  you.  Young  Mr.  Daunay,  who  is  in  pos- 


212  Daunay's  Tower. 

session,  as  far  as  the  law  will  allow  him,  of  your  father's 
property,  does  not  seem  disinclined   to  be  friendly." 

"  Friendly,"  cried  Annabel,  while  the  hot  color 
mounted  to  her  cheek,  Awhile  the  first  thing  he  does  is 
to  try  and  throw  discredit  on  my  own  mother's  character. " 

"Well,  you  cannot  say  that  he  is  doing  that  per- 
sonally," in  a  dispassionate  tone.  u  He  is  in  the  hands 
of  his  lawyers,  and  Mr.  Clissold  is  a  very  shrewd  man  of 
business.  Of  course  he  thinks  it  his  duty  to  defend  his 
client  to  the  best  of  his  ability.  But  Mr.  Jocelyn  Dau-, 
nay " 

"  Jocelyn  ?  "  murmured  Annabel.  "  My  father  used 
to  speak  of  him  as  '  Jos,'  and  I  wondered  whether  he 
was  called  Joseph  or  Josiah  ?  " 

Dr.  Lechmere  smiled,  and  then  went  on  gravely  : 
"  This  Mr.  Jocelyn  Daunay  does  not  in  the  least  wish 
to  inconvenience  or  distress  you.  He  hopes  that  you 
will  agree  to  what  he  calls  'a  friendly  suit.'  That  is, 
an  investigation  of  the  facts  simply  for  the  satisfaction 
of  establishing  your  position  and  making  it  easier  for 
him  to  hand  the  property  to  you.  He  has  not  the 
slightest  desire  to  retain  it  unless  it  is  lawfully  proved 
to  be  his,  and  even  in  that  case  he  says  that  he  can't 
possibly  rob  you  of  what  is  your  due." 

"  I  suppose  you  would  call  that  rather  generous  of 
him,"  Annabel  remarked,  doubtfully.  "But  I  much 
prefer  justice  to  generosity.  If  my  father  wished  to 
leave  his  money  to  Mr.  Jocelyn  Daunay  I  would  a  great 
deal  rather  not  touch  a  farthing  of  it,  even  though  you 
proved  a  hundred  times  over  that  it  legally  belonged  to 
me." 

"  We  are  all  very  disinterested  when  we  are  young," 
said  the  doctor.  "  But  when  we  get  old  we  know  the 


The  Views  of  Young  And  Old.     213 

value  of  money,  and  are  not  quite  so  ready  to  fling  it 
away.  I  think  it  would  be  well  if  you  could  make  up 
your  mind  to  treat  Mr.  Jocelyn  Daunay's  advances  in  a 
friendly  spirit.  He  is  very  anxious  to  make  some  search 
among  the  papers  at  Daunay's  Tower,  and  he  wishes  to 
know  whether  it  would  be  disagreeable  to  you  if  he 
came  down  there  to  stay  for  a  few  days,  possibly  with 
his  sister." 

"  Why  should  it  be  disagreeable  to  me  ?  I  have 
never  been  inside  the  house  myself  since  I  was  a  baby," 
said  Annabel,  rather  haughtily.  "It  is  his  property,  I 
suppose.  He  is  quite  at  liberty  to  make  any  use  he 
pleases  of  it." 

"  Very  well,  I  will  write  and  tell  him  so  " — pretending 
not  to  notice  the  unfriendliness  of  her  tone — "and  if 
he  comes  yon  must  not  stand  upon  your  dignity  too 
much,  but  remember,  as  somebody  once  said,  that  '  he 
also  is  a  vertebrate  animal.' ' 

"You  think  I  am  likely  to  forget  my  manners, "said 
Annabel,  with  a  laugh. 

But  Dr.  Lechmere  could  see  that  his  shaft  went 
home. 

He  might  be  ironical  with  Jocelyn,  tender  with  Anna- 
bel, but  his  heart  was  sore  within  him  as  he  went  upon 
his  way.  Had  the  moment  come  so  soon — the  moment 
when  the  girl's  heart  would  go  out  from  her  old  friends, 
and  fix  its  affections  upon  a  stranger  ?  He  had  looked 
for  it,  he  had  known  that  it  would  come  ;  yet,  now  that 
the  time  seemed  to  be  drawing  near,  he  was  conscious 
that  it  would  bring  him  such  pain  as  he  had  never  yet 
endured. 

"  It  is  a  pity  one  has  to  live,  when  one  gets  so  little 
out  of  life,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he  went  in  and  out 


214  Daunay's  Tower. 

among  his  patients  that  day,  noting  with  morbid  in- 
tensity every  sign  of  secret  suffering,  of  suppressed 
jealousy,  of  outraged  love.  He  could  not  prescribe  for 
these,  and  yet  they  seemed  to  him  much  more  worthy 
of  pity  than  the  bodily  diseases  which  he  was  called  on 
to  cure.  "  Why  do  all  these  poor  folk  go  on  enduring 
their  miserable  lives  ?  Why  do  I  do  it  myself  ?  I  sup- 
pose because  there  is  generally  some  one  in  the  world 
to  whom  one's  death  would  mean  disaster — or  perhaps 
only  regret  ;  and  one  grows  to  have  a  soft-hearted  re- 
luctance to  inflict  unnecessary  pain.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  Annabel,  should  I  have  gone  on  living  for  the  last 
few  years,  I  wonder  ?  I  fancy  not.  Well,  the  longest 
day  comes  to  an  end  at  last." 

Then  he  thought  of  Jocelyn.  "  I  like  the  lad,"  he 
said  to  himself  with  a  little  smile.  "  He's  astonishingly 
naif  and  simple,  but  there's  something  amiable  about 
him  too.  I  don't  know  whether  he  has  enough  brain 
and  soul  to  satisfy  all  Annabel's  needs  ;  but,  if  she 
marries  him,  she  will  at  least  have  a  manly  and  honest 
sort  of  man  for  a  husband,  and  no  woman  should  de- 
sire more." 

The  young  man  of  whom  he  spoke  was  meanwhile 
traveling  to  London  by  express  train,  and  feeling  as  if 
all  his  world  needed  to  be  reconstructed.  It  would  be 
difficult,  he  reflected,  to  explain  to  Mr.  Clissold  that 
his  views  had  completely  changed  during  the  last  two 
or  three  days,  and  that  he  was  as  firmly  convinced  of 
Annabel's  claim  to  the  property  as  he  had  formerly 
been  the  reverse.  "  Of  course,  I  have  no  proofs  to 
offer,  and  it  sounds  as  though  I  were  an  awful  fool,  and 
had  been  talked  over  by  the  enemy,"  he  said  to  himself 
plaintively  ;  "  but  I  can't  help  it.  Since  I  saw  An- 


The  Views  of  Young  And  Old.     215 

nabel  and  talked  to  Dr.  Lechmere,  everything  seems 
changed." 

On  further  reflection,  he  decided  that  he  would  not 
give  Mr.  Clissold  a  full  account  of  his  doings.  He 
simply  called  upon  the  old  lawyer,  and  told  him  that 
he  and  his  sister  thought  of  spending  a  few  days  at 
Dan  nay's  Tower,  partly  in  order  to  see  how  much 
restoration  was  needed,  and  partly  to  look  through  the 
papers  which  might  happen  to  be  there. 

"  What  papers  ?  "  Mr.  Clissold  asked  sharply. 

"I  thought  there  might  be  some  record  of  Mr. 
Daunay's  doings — diary  or  letters  of  some  kind.  I  sup- 
pose I  am  justified  in  examining  them  ?  " 

The  lawyer  spread  out  his  hands.  "My  dear  sir, 
the  place  is  yours  by  law  and  equity  ;  you  can  do  what 
you  please  with  it,  or  with  whatever  you  find  in  it. 
Possession  is  nine  points  of  the  law.  I  am  now  engaged 
in  the  investigation  of  the  claim  that  has  been  made  on 
behalf  of  a  young  woman  who  calls  herself  Annabel 
Daunay,  and  I  am  quite  convinced  that  nothing  will 
come  of  it." 

"She  is  John  Daunay's  danghter  ;  I  am  sure  of 
that,"  said  Jocelyn,  rather  hotly. 

"  Indeed  ?  And  may  I  ask  how  you  come  to  be  sure 
of  it  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  been  down  to  the  place,"  Jocelyn 
replied.  He  had  not  meant  to  tell  his  story,  but  Mr. 
Clissold's  depreciatory  reference  to  Annabel  had  con- 
vinced him  that  frankness  would  be  best.  "  I  have 
seen  Dr.  Lechmere,  and  I  have  seen  my  cousin." 

"Your  cousin  ?  Do  you  mean  to  give  the  case 
away,  Mr.  Daunay  ?  " 

"  I  mean  this,"  said  Jocelyn,  firmly,  "  that  I  see  no 


2i6  Daunay's  Tower. 

reason  to  doubt  that  the  young  lady  whom  I  saw  is  the 
daughter  of  the  late  Mr.  John  Daunay,  and  if  that  can 
be  proved  I  should  wish  to  give  her  at  least  a  share  of 
the  property,  if  not  the  whole.  If  you  can  work  the 
matter  on  those  lines,  Mr.  Clissold,  I  shall  be  glad  ; 
if  not,  I  must  ask  somebody  else  to  work  for  me." 

"  You  mean  to  say  that  if  she  is  John  Daunay's 
child — whether  lawfully  or  not — you  wish  to  provide 
for  her  ?  "  said  Mr.  Clissold,  staring  at  him. 

"  Most  certainly  I  do." 

The  little  lawyer  for  once  surprised  his  client.  He 
rose  and  bowed  to  him  with  superannuated  politeness, 
and  extended  his  withered  white  hand. 

"Allow  me  to  shake  hands  with  you,  Mr.  Daunay," 
he  said.  "  Your  intentions  may  not  be  worldly  wise, 
but  they  are  those  of  a  man  of  honor.  The  young  ludy 
may  consider  herself  fortunate  to  have  found  such  a 
champion." 

"I  might  as  well  mention,"  said  Jocelyn,  flushing  to 
the  roots  of  his  hair,  "  that  I  mean  to  ask  her  to  be  my 
wife  as  soon  as  I  can  find  a  suitable  opportunity." 

"  Well,  well,  well !  "  ejaculated  Mr.  Clissold.  "  This 
is  a  little  sudden,  is  it  not  ?  But  you  are,  after  all, 
securing  yourself  against  every  contingency,  Mr.  Dau- 
nay. If  you  marry  her,  you  see,  it  won't  much  matter 
whether  she  is  old  John  Daunay's  legitimate  daughter 
or  not." 

And  he  chuckled  a  little  to  himself  as  he  resumed 
his  chair. 


Lenore.  217 


CHAPTER  XXIL 

LENORE. 

EDITH  was  ready  enough  to  join  her  brother  in  his 
expedition  to  Daunay's  Tower.  She  appreciated  his 
eagerness  to  look  over  the  old  man's  papers,  and  offered 
to  assist  him  in  the  search. 

"  One  must  not  be  prosperous  at  that  poor  girl's  ex- 
pense," she  said.  "  If  she  is  the  heiress  we  must  resign 
ourselves  to  poverty  again."  For  Jocelyn  had  not  yet 
confessed  to  her  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  at  first  sight 
with  Annabel. 

Indeed,  as  the  days  went  by  before  his  return  to 
Cumberland,  he  could  not,  after  all,  be  quite  certain 
whether  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  or  not ;  and  this, 
not  because  of  any  inherent  fickleness  in  himself,  but 
because  he  felt  the  unlikeliness  and  the  romance  of  the 
thing,  and  was  a  little  ashamed  to  find  himself  capable 
of  such  a  proceeding.  Then  memory  refused  to  paint 
Annabel's  outlines  exactly  on  the  air ;  he  was  not  sure 
of  the  color  of  her  eyes ;  he  did  not  know  whether  she 
was  as  pretty  as  he  had  thought  her  ;  he  wondered  ner- 
vously if  the  fine  air  and  the  sunshine  had  not  intoxi- 
cated him  a  little,  and  made  him  more  enthusiastic 
than  was  reasonable  or  right.  And  again,  some  turn 
of  her  head,  some  movement  of  her  hand  would  come 
back  to  his  mind,  and  fill  him  with  pleasure  ;  or  he 
would  recall  word  by  word  the  things  that  she  had  said, 


218  Daunay's  Tower. 

and  wonder  at  their  wisdom  and  their  beauty.  He  really 
did  not  know  how  very  deeply  he  was  in  love  !  He  only 
knew  that  in  the  whole  wide  world  he  was  quite  sure  there 
was  not  one  girl  so  wonderful  as  Annabel.  And  during 
the  few  days  that  elapsed  before  he  could  get  ready  to 
go  to  Daunay's  Tower  he  grew  so  restless  and  so  irri- 
table that  Edith  regarded  him  with  amaze,  and  won- 
dered in  her  own  mind  whether  he  was  fretting  about 
the  inheritance  which  he  might  be  called  upon  to  re- 
sign. 

The  brother  and  sister  did  not  go  to  Scotland,  as  they 
had  intended  to  do,  and  Mrs.  Wycherly  was  very  much 
aggrieved  by  their  defection.  As  soon  as  she  realized 
that  Jocelyn  was  the  heir  to  old  Mr.  Daunay's  property, 
she  set  her  whole  heart  upon  whistling  him  back,  for  she 
was  well  aware  that  she  had  let  her  kestrel  fly  too  far, 
and  that  he  had  forgotten  the  resting-place  which  she 
had  once  allowed  him  to  occupy.  But  then,  it  had 
seemed  so  very  unlikely  that  he  should  ever  be  a  wealthy 
man  !  She  had  been  kind  to  him  because  she  liked  his 
good  looks  and  pleasant  boyish  ways ;  she  had  never 
seriously  contemplated  marrying  him.  Things  were  in- 
deed different  now. 

She  had  nearly  corne  to  the  end  of  her  Scottish  visit. 
It  was  the  beginning  of  September,  and  she  hardly  knew 
what  to  do  with  herself.  She  had  had  a  very  dull  time 
in  a  fine  old  Highland  house  where  the  men  were  out 
all  day  and  the  women  were  badly  dressed  and  ex- 
ceedingly well-behaved.  If  Keynold  Harding  had  not 
been  there  she  would  not  have  enjoyed  herself  at  all  ; 
but  she  could  always  let  Eeynold  make  love  to  her — 
that  was  one  comfort:  he  had  done  it  all  his  life,  and 
she  looked  on  it  as  part  of  her  daily  bread. 


Lenore.  219 

"  I  say,  Lenore " 

He  came  hurriedly  into  the  big  dark  library,  into 
which  a  sulky  fit  had  taken  her  one  afternoon  between 
tea  and  dressing-time  ;  there  were  some  very  comfort- 
able chairs  near  the  fire,  and  no  draught  at  all,  and  it 
was  not  a  room  which  many  people  frequented.  When 
she  wanted  a  quiet  little  slumber,  Lenore  generally 
found  her  way  to  the  library. 

"  How  you  startled  me,  Keynold  !  What  is  it  ? " 
There  was  a  note  of  pettishness  in  her  voice. 

"  Did  you  know  that  Cheverton  was  gone  ?  " 

"  Lord  Cheverton  ?  Yes.  At  least,  I  knew  that  he 
was  going." 

"Why  did  he  go?" 

"Well,  if  you  want  to  know,  because  I  refused 
him." 

"  You — refused — him  !  And  what,  in  the  name  of 
wonder,  made  you  do  that  ?  He  would  have  made  an 
admirable  husband,  and  he's  not  at  all  badly  off." 

Harding  settled  his  broad  back  against  the  mantel- 
piece, and  looked  down  with  vexed  but  affectionate 
contempt  on  the  graceful  little  woman  in  the  armchair. 
He  was  fond  of  Lenore  in  his  way,  but  he  sometimes 
wished  that  she  could  find  a  husband  who  would  take 
her  off  his  hands.  He  had  paid  her  debts  so  often  that 
he  was  beginning  to  be  tired  of  it. 

"  I  want  thirty  thousand  a  year,  at  the  very  least,"' 
murmured  Mrs.Wycherly. 

"  Where  will  you  get  it  ?  " 

"  Oh,  a  great  many  people  have  as  much  as  that.  I 
hear  that  old  Mr.  Daunay  has  left  Jocelyn  quite  that 
income,  if  not  a  larger  one." 

"I  see,"  said  Keynold  Harding;  and    then  a  little 


22O  Daunay's  Tower. 

silence  fell  between  them  while  he  considered  the 
situation. 

"  Jocelyn  Daunay's  not  a  bad  fellow — very  simple  in 
some  ways,  but  no  fool  for  all  that.  Isn't  he  rather 
young  for  you,  Lenore  ?  " 

"  Don't  be  rough  and  rude,  Keynold.  A  woman  is 
as  old  as  she  looks." 

"  I  will  do  you  the  justice  to  say  you  don't  look  five 
and  twenty.  But  what  has  become  of  him  ?  You 
snubbed  him  in  town,  I  remember.  Hasn't  he  escaped 
your  snares  this  time  ?  " 

"Really,  Eeynold,  you  are  a  little  coarse." 

"  Am  I  ?  Well,  I  can't  beat  about  the  bush.  Why 
isn't  he  here  ?  I  know  he  was  asked." 

"  There  was  so  much  business  connected  with  the 
estate,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly,  in  a  dreamy  voice,  "  that 
he  thought  it  better  to  stay  in  London  for  a  few  weeks, 
and  take  his  holiday  later.  I  have  been  writing  to 
Edith  ;  I  know  their  movements  pretty  accurately." 

"  Where  are  they  now,  then  ?  " 

"They  are  just  going  to  Cumberlaud.  You  know 
Cumberland  pretty  well,  don't  you,  Eeynold  ?" 

"Some  part  of  it." 

"  Don't  you  think  that,  as  we  go  South  in  a  few  days, 
we  might  break  our  journey  at  Carlisle  ?  " 

"  I  was  intending  to  go  to  Gourlay's.  He's  got  a  big 
shoot  on,  and  I  wanted  to  be  there.  Can't  you  play 
your  little  game  without  me  ?  " 

"  Not  very  well,  Reynold.  Surely  you  could  go  to 
Mr.  Gourlay's  another  time  ?  You  see,  I  can't  so 
easily  run  over  to  the  barbarous  place  where  Daunay's 
Tower  is  situated  as  you  can  ;  and  if  you  go,  you  can 
easily  make  Jocelyn  feel  that  he  ought  to  ask  me  too." 


Lenore.  221 

"  But  could  he  put  ns  up  ?  There'll  be  no  cook/' 
said  Harding  feelingly,  "  and  perhaps  no  beds." 

"We  might  go  for  the  day  only/'  said  Lenore.  "I 
would  manage  the  rest." 

"  Well,  as  you  please.  Such  a  pretty  woman  as  you 
are,  Lenore,  ought  to  marry  a  duke  at  the  very  least. 
If  I  had  thirty  thousand  a  year>  I  should  ask  you  to 
marry  me  myself.  But  you  would  be  a  deucedly  ex- 
pensive wife  ! " 

"  1  certainly  can't  get  on  without  money,"  said  Mrs. 
Wycherly,  sighing.  "  What  a  bore  it  is  !  You  will  be 
ready  to  leave  on  Tuesday,  then,  Reynold  ?  " 

"  Just  as  you  like,"  said  Reynold,  in  no  very  amiable 
tone.  He  felt  that  he  was  making  a  great  sacrifice  for 
his  cousin ;  and,  although  he  was  fond  of  her,  and 
liked  to  forward  her  little  schemes,  he  thought  that  she 
should  be  grateful  to  him  for  his  help.  At  present  she 
had  not  said  a  word  of  gratitude,  and  had  called  him 
rough  and  coarse.  But  Lenore  knew  how  to  salve  the 
wounds  she  made. 

"  Dear  Reynold,  how  kind  yon  are  ! "  she  said  softly. 
"I  often  feel  as  if  you  were  my  brother;  only,  you 
make  a  much  better  brother  than  the  one  I  lost." 

"  He  is  not  dead,  is  he  ?  " 

' '  I  suppose  not  :  we  have  not  heard  from  him  for 
years.  I  always  dread  to  take  up  a  paper  lest  I  should 
see  his  name  in  some  disgraceful  connection." 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  that  now,  I  should 
think.  It  is  twenty  years  or  so  since  he  came  to  grief  ; 
a  capital  fellow  he  was,  too  ;  I  don't  know  anybody  who 
was  better  company  than  Eugene." 

"  But  you  did  not  get  on  very  well  ?  " 

"Oh  no  ;  we  never  hit  it  off  exactly,"  said  Reynold, 


222  Daunay's  Tower. 

in  a  contemptuous  tone.  "  He  was  too  rowdy  and  ex- 
travagant for  my  taste,  and  he  had  the  very  devil  of  a 
temper." 

Lenore  shuddered  a  little.  "  Indeed  he  had  !  It 
must  be  terrible  not  to  know  how  to  control  one's  self. 
I  remember  some  frightful  scenes  !  However,  he  is  not 
very  likely  to  come  back  to  us.  Dear  papa  would  never 
admit  him  to  the  house  again." 

She  pressed  a  lace  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  as  if  the 
memory  of  her  scapegrace  brother  had  overcome  her  ; 
and  then,  with  a  parting  sigh  and  smile,  she  left  Rey- 
nold in  the  library  and  went  up-stairs  to  dress  for  dinner. 

Then  it  happened  that  just  when  Jocelyn  and  his 
sister  arrived  at  High  Rigg,  Mrs.  Wycherly  and  Mr. 
Harding  were  at  Carlisle. 

"  Here's  an  awful  bore,"  Jocelyn  said  to  Edith  on  the 
evening  of  their  arrival  at  Daunay's  Tower.  "  Mrs. 
Wycherly  and  her  cousin  Harding  are  in  Carlisle,  and 
want  to  know  if  they  can  come  to  see  us.  What  shall 
we  do  with  them  ?  " 

"  They  don't  wish  to  stop,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Only  for  the  day.  We  must  give  them  some  lunch 
and  send  them  back  in  the  evening.  What  a  horrid 
nuisance  ! " 

"Why,  Jocelyn,  I  thought  that  you  were  so  devoted 
to  Mrs.  Wycherly  !  " 

11  She's  very  nice  and  she's  very  pretty,  of  course ; 
but  one  sees  enough  of  her  in  town.  We  could  do  with- 
out her  here,  I  think,"  said  Jocelyn  rather  savagely. 

Edith  was  delighted.  She  had  always  feared  Lenore 
Wycherly's  influence,  and  thought  that  her  brother  was 
mistaken  in  his  estimate  of  the  woman.  She  was  so 
pleased  by  the  view  that  he  took  of  her,  that  she  was 


Lenore.  223 

not  at  all  on  her  guard  when  Mrs.  Wycherly  actually 
arrived  ;  and  was  very  much  taken  back  to  find  that 
Lenore  was  "much  too  tired"  to  go  back  to  Carlisle 
that  night  and  that  a  bedroom  must  be  found  for  her 
at  the  Tower.  Eeynold  took  a  room  at  the  Daunay 
Arms,  in  spite  of  the  polite  persuasions  of  his  host  and 
hostess  to  remain  with  them.  He  had  had  his  private 
instructions,  and,  although  he  laughed  in  his  sleeve  at 
them,  he  thought  it  better  to  obey. 

Naturally,  the  Daunays  expected  that  their  visitors 
would  next  day  go  back  to  Carlisle.  But  Lenore  was 
too  clever  for  that.  She  had  caught  a  chill,  she  said, 
and  must  remain  where  she  was  for  a  day  or  two — did 
Edith  mind  ?  Edith  resigned  herself  to  the  inevitable, 
and  only  suggested  that  the  doctor  should  be  sent  for. 
But  Mrs.  Wycherly  did  not  want  the  doctor.  A  day 
or  two  in  the  quiet  of  the  country,  she  said,  would  re- 
store her  perfectly.  Edith  must  not  mind  her ;  she 
would  amuse  herself.  And  Edith  took  her  rather  at 
her  word. 

Jocelyn  also  was  vexed  at  Mrs.  Wycherly's  presence. 
He  knew  fairly  well  what  she  expected  him  to  do. 
She  wanted  him  to  continue  the  love-making  which  he 
had  begun  in  London,  and  this  he  was  by  no  means 
willing  to  do.  Her  visit  and  that  of  Reynold  Hard- 
ing, who,  although  nominally  staying  at  the  inn,  was 
entirely  dependent  upon  the  Daunays  for  entertainment 
and  amusement,  sufficed  to  delay  him  for  a  day  or  two 
in  making  further  acquaintance  with  Annabel.  But 
as  soon  as  he  could  get  free  from  them  he  set  out  for 
Moorside  Farm. 

It  behooved  him  to  go  as  soon  as  he  possibly  could. 
Mrs.  Grier  and  her  husband  had  already  been  aston- 


224  Daunay's  Tower. 

ished  and  offended  to  find  in  their  Squire  the  young 
stranger  who  had  spent  a  night  or  two  at  the  inn  and 
gave  his  name  as  Mr.  Jocelyn.  The  rumor  of  his 
former  visit  spread  far  and  wide.  Even  Dr.  Lech- 
mere,  upon  whom  Jocnlyn  called  very  soon  after  his 
arrival,  looked  at  him  with  a  satirical  smile  and  asked 
if  he  had  yet  seen  Annabel. 

"  I  should  go  as  soon  as  you  are  able,  if  yon  don't 
want  to  get  yourself  into  trouble  with  her,"  he  had 
said.  And  Jocelyn,  in  great  perturbation,  had  ac- 
cepted the  hint. 

The  golden  autumn  weather  had  not  yet  passed  away. 
The  hills  were  deeply  purple  and  the  little  white  farm- 
house stood  out  like  a  patch  of  snow  against  their 
wonderfully  rich  coloring.  The  garden  was  still  ablaze 
with  crysanthemums  and  asters,  bright  in  color  if  want- 
ing in  perfume.  But  there  was  no  Annabel  in  the 
garden  ;  and  after  a  brief  survey  of  its  glowing  flower- 
beds, Jocelyn  went  boldly  to  the  door. 

"  Is  Miss  Arnold  at  home  ?  "  he  asked  of  the  rosy- 
cheeked  maiden  who  answered  his  summons. 

"  Yes,  sir.     Come  in,  sir,  please." 

And,  without  delay,  he  was  ushered  into  a  small  and 
gaudily-furnished  parlor,  where  a  fire  was  burning  al- 
though the  day  was  warm,  and  a  pale,  plain-faced 
elderly  woman  sat  in  an  invaild's  chair.  Jocelyn 
guessed  at  once  that  he  saw  Jane  Arnold,  whose  name 
was  already  very  well  known  to  him.  She  looked  at 
him  with  solemn,  questioning  eyes  ;  and  he  stood  for 
a  moment  silent  and  motionless,  not  knowing  how  to 
introduce  himself.  Then  Annabel  rose  from  a  little 
seat  in  the  most  shadowy  corner  of  the  room,  and  came 
to  the  rescue. 


self 


led 
.im ; 

ess  it 
were 


"A  Cousin  And  a  Friend."  227 

"  I  have  been  told  that  my  eyes  were  like  my  mother's," 
said  Jocelyn.  "  But  I  think  I  am  as  much  like  the 
Daunays  as — as  Annabel  is,  at  any  rate."  He  could 
not  help  hesitating  before  mentioning  her  name ;  it 
seemed  a  little  audacious  of  him  to  call  her  by  it  at 
all. 

"  Annabel  is  like  her  mother,  too,"  said  Jane  Arnold, 
her  voice  softening  more  and  more.  "  And  what  I 
should  like  to  know  is — if  you  are  friendly  with  her, 
and  disposed  to  let  her  have  her  own  rights,  why  have 
you  let  your  lawyer  make  all  this  fuss  about  the  ques- 
tion of  her  mother's  marriage  ?  There  was  no  need  to 
bring  it  up  at  all,  that  I  can  see.  We  all  know  that 
Betha  was  married  ;  and  that  was  enough  for  us  with- 
out any  looking  up  certificates." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  is  not  enough  for  the  lawyers," 
said  Jocelyn,  with  an  embarrassed  air.  "  You  see, 
they  thought  it  their  duty  to  inquire  into  every  detail, 
because  they  had  never  known  that  Mr.  Daunay  was 
married  at  all,  and  it's  a  little  awkward,  you  see  " — 
with  an  apologetic  air — "  that  there  is  no  record  to  be 
found  at  Somerset  House." 

Miss  Arnold  had  never  heard  of  Somerset  House  in 
her  life,  and  did  not  in  the  least  know  what  this  state- 
ment portended. 

"That's  nothing  to  me,"  she  said,  obstinately. 
"  Somerset  House  or  not,  my  Betha  was  married  to 
John  Daunay,  and  he  told  me  so  with  his  own  mouth, 
and  of  his  own  free  will  ;  and  I  think  shame  of  any 
one  who  would  insult  her  memory  by  saying  that  she 
would  go  away  with  a  man  to  whom  she  was  not  mar- 
ried or  going  to  be  married  immediately." 

'•  That's  true,"  said  Jocelyn,  heartily.     "I  am  sure 


228  Daunay's  Tower. 

that  Annabel's  mother  was  everything  that  was  good  ; 
why,  one  cannot  look  at  Annabel  and  think  ill  of  her 
parents — not  but  what  Mr.  Daunay  was  somewhat 
eccentric  in  his  ways,"  he  added,  with  a  faint  twinkle 
in  his  eye.  "  But  what  I  have  come  for  to-day  is  to 
assure  you  that  when  the  question  was  first  raised,  I 
knew  nothing  about  the  circumstances  or  the  way  in 
which  Mr.  Clissold  answered  your  letter,  for  I  was  cer- 
tainly under  the  impression  that  Mr.  Daunay  had  a 
daughter,, who  was  entitled  to  his  property,  until  he 
himself  informed  me  that  she  was  dead." 

"  He  told  yon  that  ?  Mr.  Daunay  told  you  that 
Annabel  was  dead  ?  "  cried  Miss  Arnold,  her  voice  ris- 
ing in  excitement.  "  I  should  not  have  thought  him 
capable  of  doing  that,  angry  although  he  was  with  her 
for  refusing  to  do  his  bidding.  But  there,  you  know 
nothing  of  all  that,  I  suppose  ;  nor  what  it  was  that 
made  him  cast  her  off." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  do,"  said  Jocelyn,  hanging  his  head. 
"  Dr.  Lechmere  told  me  ;  it  seems  to  have  been  my 
fault,  in  a  sense,  although  I  had  not  the  slightest  desire 
that  my  cousin  should  do  anything  distasteful  to  her." 

"  If  she  had  seen  you  first  maybe,"  said  Jane,  re- 
garding him  shrewdly,  "  there  might  have  been  a 
difference ;  but,  of  course,  when  she  knew  that  she 
had  been  offered  to  you  as  a  bargain,  along  with  the 
property,  it  put  up  her  back  ;  and  no  wonder  !  " 

"  It  is  very  unfortunate,"  said  Jocelyn,  with  great 
sincerity  in  his  eye  and  voice.  "I'd  give  the  world  to 
be  friends  with  my  cousin,  now  that  I  have  seen  her. 
But  I  came  here  to-day  hoping  to  persuade  her  and  you 
to  forgive  me  for  the  trouble  I  have  caused  her,  and  to 
ask  her  whether  she  cannot  look  upon  me  as  a  friend." 


"A  Cousin  And  a  Friend."  229 

"  You'll  have  to  settle  that  with  her,"  said  Miss 
Arnold,  shaking  her  head.  "  I  have  no  authority  to 
interfere  with  Annabel's  likes  and  dislikes,  and  she 
must  judge  for  herself." 

"You  mean  that  she  actually  dislikes  me?"  said 
Jocelyn,  in  a  distressed  voice. 

"  I  would  not  go  as  far  as  that.  She  is  angry  with 
you  ;  that's  certain.  And  what  did  you  mean  by  com- 
ing masquerading  the  other  day  as  a  lawyer's  clerk  ? 
Was  that  the  way  to  make  Annabel  friends  with  you  ? 
Don't  you  know  the  last  thing  a  girl  can  get  over  is  the 
feeling  that  she  has  been  tricked  and  taken  in  ?  " 

"  I  am  awfully  sorry,"  said  Jocelyn  ;  "  I  only  did  it 
for  fun,  and  out  of  curiosity,  you  know.  Don't  you 
think  she  will  forgive  me  in  the  course  of  time  ?  You 
might  speak  to  her  and  persuade  her  ?  " 

"You'll  do  that  better  yourself  than  I  can,"  said 
Jane  Arnold,  with  a  pitying  smile.  "  You  have  a  deal 
to  learn,  young  man,  if  you  think  that  a  woman  can 
persuade  where  a  man  has  failed.  Don't  you  ever 
ask  a  woman  to  do  for  you  what  you  can  do  for  your- 
self." 

"  I'll  ask  her  myself,  then,"  said  Jocelyn,  springing 
involuntarily  to  his  feet.  "Where  can  I  find  her  ?  I 
must  make  my  apologies  as  soon  as  I  can." 

"  There  is  no  hurry,"  said  Jane  Arnold,  watching 
him  with  a  curious  attentiveness.  "  What  does  the 
good  word  of  a  girl  matter,  or  whether  she  is  friendly 
with  you  or  not  ?  " 

"  It  matters  very  much  to  the  man  who  wants  to 
make  her  his  wife,"  said  Jocelyn,  wheeling  round  and 
facing  Miss  Arnold  with  a  new  light  in  her  eyes. 

Jane  shook  her  head.     "  There  is  a  countryside  say- 


230  Daunay's  Tower. 

ing  that  I  doubt  you'll  not  have  heard,  Mr.  Jocelyn. 
'  Soon  kindled,  soon  dead.'  I  fancy  you're  a  bit  over- 
quick  about  it ;  to-day's  the  second  time  you  have  seen 
Annabel,  and  that's  all." 

"  If  I  had  seen  her  a  hundred  times  I  could  not  make 
up  my  mind  more  than  I  have  done  already/'  said  Joce- 
lyn. "  But  I  don't  want  to  precipitate  matters  ;  I  won't 
tell  her  yet  what  I  want.  I'll  be  content  if  she  will 
only  let  me  be  her  friend.  What  I  want  is  simply  that 
you  should  know  how  I  feel  about  her,  and  promise  to 
put  no  obstacles  in  my  way.  After  all,  Mr.  Daunay's 
plan  was  a  good  one,  if  Annabel  would  but  consent  to 
carry  it  out." 

Miss  Arnold  had  an  evident  struggle  with  herself.  It 
was  difficult  to  disbelieve  this  young  man,  who  looked 
so  handsome  and  spoke  so  winningly,  but  she  was 
resolved  to  be  cautious,  and,  if  possible,  severe  ;  still, 
she  had  too  much  of  the  country  women  in  her  to  be 
diplomatic,  and  therefore  came  to  the  point  at  once. 

"  You're  quite  sure  that  you  are  not  seeking  her  for 
her  money  ?  " 

"Quite  sure,"  laughed  Jocelyn.  "I  wish  she  had 
not  a  penny." 

"And  you  would  take  her  just  the  same  if  there  was 
that  slur  upon  her  birth  ?" 

"  Just  the  same,"  said  Jocelyn,  manfully.  "  It 
would  not  alter  her." 

"  And  if  you  married  her,  you  would  not  cast  it  in 
her  teeth  that  her  mother  was  only  a  farmer's  daughter 
and  that  her  father  had  cast  her  adrift  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  take  me  for  ?  "  said  Jocelyn,  unable 
to  help  laughing,  but  a  little  indignant.  "  I  faith- 
fully promise  that  I  would  not  do  any  of  these 


"A  Cousin  And  a  Friend."  231 

things.  Why,  Miss  Arnold,  do  you  think  I  am  a  brnte 
and  a  cad  ?  " 

"I  think  you  are  a  gentleman,"  said  Jane  Arnold. 
And  then  she  held  out  her  hand,  which  Jocelyn 
grasped  cordially. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  we  have  made  a  compact,  have 
we  not  ?  You  are  not  to  tell  Annabel  what  I  feel 
about  her,  you  know  ;  but  you  are  to  help  me  as  much 
as  you  can.  You  will  do  that,  won't  you  ?  " 

"Will  you  promise  me,"  said  the  woman,  "to  make 
Annabel  happy  and  to  love  her  all  your  life  through  ?  " 

"I  promise,  I  swear  it." 

"  No,  don't  swear,  laddie  ;  oaths  are  vain  things  at 
the  best,  and  they  say  that  there  is  no  guilt  in  the 
breaking  of  lovers'  vows.  But  I  am  a  dying  woman, 
Jocelyn  Daunay,  and  I  tell  you  that  the  curse  of  a  dy- 
ing woman  will  be  upon  you  if  you  make  my  Annabel 
unhappy,  or  do  her  the  least  bit  of  wrong." 

"  You  may  depend  upon  me,"  said  Jocelyn,  with  a 
new  gravity.  ' '  If  I  win  her  I  will  take  her  as  a  sol- 
emn charge  from  you  as  well  as  the  one  love  of  my 
life.  But  you  are  not  ill,  I  hope,"  he  added  hastily. 
"  There  are  surely  many  years  of  life  before  you 

yet.-" 

Jane  Arnold  shook  her  head.  "  I  am  doomed,"  she 
said  quietly.  "  Annabel  does  not  know  it,  but  the 
doctor  knows.  You  can  ask  him  if  you  like." 

Jocelyn  was  shocked  ;  but  as  he  observed  the  pale, 
puffy  cheeks,  the  purple  lips,  and  the  frails  limbs  of 
the  woman  before  him,  he  felt  that  she  was  probably 
speaking  the  truth.  Her  breathing  had  for  some  time 
past  been  growing  more  irregular,  and  presently  she 
said  in  a  faint  voice — 


232  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  I  must  not  talk  any  longer.  Go  and  find  Annabel, 
if  you  like.  I  want  to  rest." 

"  Shall  I  send  her  to  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no.  Leave  me  alone  a  little  and  put  that  glass 
beside  me,  if  you  like.  I  shall  be  all  right  when  I  have 
had  a  little  sleep.  I  cannot  bear  very  much  excite- 
ment now.  If  you  are  all  that  you  seem,  Jocelyn 
Daunay,  you  will  have  made  my  last  hours  very  easy." 

Jocelyn  pressed  her  hand  and  went  away,  solemnized 
by  the  consciousness  that  Death  was  not  far  from  the 
house.  He  wondered  whether  Annabel  knew  it,  and 
whether,  when  the  bereavement  came,  she  would  allow 
him  to  comfort  her.  At  present  it  did  not  look  like  it. 
She  was  standing  in  the  walled  enclosure  or  courtyard 
on  the  shadier  side  of  the  house,  feeding  a  flock  of 
favorite  tame  pigeons.  She  stood  with  her  back  to  the 
door,  as  though  she  did  not  intend  to  see  him  when 
he  passed,  but  he  paused  ;  he  did  not  feel  at  all  inclined 
to  go  away  without  a  word.  It  was  a  pretty  sight,  for 
the  birds  were  as  familiar  and  as  greedy  as  pigeons 
could  possibly  be  ;  and  Jocelyn,  who  had  watched  them 
outside  the  Uffizi  Gallery  in  Florence,  was  at  once 
reminded  of  a  scene  which  he  had  witnessed  there, 
when  a  girl  was  almost  hidden  from  view  by  the  white 
wings  of  the  bird-crowd  that  fell  upon  her. 

There  was  a  flock  of  them  at  Annabel's  feet  :  they 
had  alighted  on  her  shoulders  and  on  her  arms  ;  they 
pressed  upon  one  another  in  their  endeavors  to  eat 
out  of  her  hand  ;  they  swooped  down  upon  the  yellow 
Indian  corn  which  she  sportively  placed  between  her 
lips  ;  they  entangled  their  pink  feet  in  her  pretty  hair, 
although  this  was  partly  protected  by  a  straw  hat 
•which  she  had  thrown  on  in  haste.  Jocelyn  i'ancied 


"A  Cousin  And  a  Friend."  233 

that  she  lengthened  out  the  proceedings  in  order  that 
she  might  avoid  having  to  speak  to  him. 

But  she  could  not  go  on  feeding  pigeons  forever. 
Her  stock  of  food  came  to  an  end ;  the  birds  quitted 
her,  one  by  one,  hovering  round  her  head  for  a  little 
while  and  settling  at  her  feet  to  pick  up  the  last  grains  of 
corn,  and  she  was  obliged  to  move  away,  so  that  she 
came  face  to  face  with  Jocelyn,  who  had  watched  the 
little  scene  with  undisguised  pleasure  and  admiration. 

She  gave  him  a  rather  haughty  look  ;  but  if  she  had 
expected  to  cow  him,  either  into  silence  or  into  an 
apology,  she  was  mistaken :  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  be  simply  cordial  and  friendly. 

"  You  have  some  very  pretty  birds  there,"  he  said. 
"  They  remind  me  of  the  Florentine  pigeons.  You 
have  never  been  to  Florence,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  nowhere,"  she  said,  caressing  with  her 
hand  one  snow-white  pigeon  which  had  fluttered  down 
upon  her  shoulder. 

"  When  you  go,  you  will  compare  those  birds  with 
your  own.  You  won't  find  much  difference  between 
them.  I  am  afraid  they  are  all  greedy." 

"  You  don't  believe  in  affection,  I  suppose,"  said 
Annabel,  a  little  scornfully.  The  bird  was  cooing  on 
her  shoulder,  and  she  pressed  it  softly  to  her  cheek  as 
she  spoke. 

"  Don't  I  ?"  said  Jocelyn,  a  little  blankly.  He  did 
not  quite  see  why  she  should  make  such  an  unwarranted 
attack  upon  him. 

"  I  mean  that  you  are  like  most  persons,"  said  Anna- 
bel. "  You  probably  think  that  all  creatures  love  the 
hand  that  feeds  them  :  we  are  loved  for  what  we  can 
give,  not  for  what  we  are," 


234  Daunay's  Tower. 

Jocelyn  began  to  understand  she  was  making  a 
veiled  allusion  to  her  own  position  ;  but  the  allusion 
was  certainly  remote,  and  he  did  not  feel  himself  called 
upon  to  reply  to  it,  but  it  seemed  to  give  him  permis- 
sion to  apologize  for  what  he  took  to  be  the  cause  of 
offense. 

"I  hope  you  will  pardon  me,"  he  said,  "for  simply 
saying  the  other  day  that  I  came  from  Mr.  Clissold, 
instead  of  mentioning  my  own  name.  Of  course,  I  had 
come  from  Mr.  Clissold  in  a  sense,  and  Dr.  Lechmere, 
who  knew  who  I  was,  had  given  me  permission  to  come 
and  see  you." 

"  Dr.  Lechmere  knew  you  ?  "  she  asked,  turning  her 
face  toward  him  quickly. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  him  my  name,  but  he  guessed 
it.  I  dare  say  he  did  not  imagine  I  should  make  a 
mystery  of  it  when  I  saw  you." 

"  There  are  too  many  mysteries,"  said  Annabel,  in 
a  rather  queenly  manner.  "  I  do  not  like  them." 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Jocelyn. 

Her  retort  was  speedy  and  to  the  point — "  Well,  you 
practise  them  ! " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  am  trying  to  clear  up  all  the 
mysteries  I  know  of.  I  think  it  is  always  better  for 
the  truth  to  be  known." 

"  But  you  withheld  your  name,"  said  Annabel  in- 
stantly. 

"  Surely  that  was  a  very  small  concealment,"  said 
Jocelyn. 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  moment  and  her  color  rose. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  with  a  certain  aloofness  in  her  tone. 
"  It  is  not  one  of  much  consequence." 

"  Then  may  I  hope  that  you  will  forgive  it?  " 


"A  Cousin  And  a  Friend."  235 

"  Ah,  that  is  quite  a  different  matter,"  she  said. 
"  One  does  not  care  to  be  deceived  even  in  a  trifle/' 

"  It  is  not  quite  a  trifle  to  me  that  you  should  be  in 
ignorance  of  my  name,"  said  Jocelyn.  "  In  fact,  I 
consider  it  a  matter  of  some  importance.  I  hoped  that 
I  might  some  day  have  the  honor  of  your  acquaintance, 
possibly  even  of  your  friendship." 

"  That  was  why  you  called  yourself  Mr.  Clissold's 
clerk,"  said  Annabel,  with  a  touch  of  irony  in  her  tone 
which  somehow  reminded  him  of  Dr.  Lechmere. 

"  If  I  came  for  the  first  time  out  of  curiosity,  I  come 
the  second  out  of  cousinly  regard,"  said  Jocelyn. 
"  Believe  me,  I  do  want  to  be  your  friend." 

"  Do  you  think  you  have  behaved  in  a  friendly  way 
towards  me  ?  "  said  Annabel. 

"  I  would  cut  off  my  right  hand  rather  than  do  any- 
thing else,"  he  said  fervently.  But  this  was  going  a 
step  beyond  her,  and  she  looked  at  him  in  surprise  as 
if  he  had  used  an  unknown  tongue. 


236  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTER    XXIV. 

RIVALS. 

THEY  had  moved  a  little  while  they  were  talking,  so 
that  by  this  time  their  steps  had  taken  them  round  the 
house  and  into  the  flower  garden.  Jocelyn  felt  that 
there  was  not  much  more  for  him  to  do  but  to  take  his 
leave  :  he  only  wanted  to  know  when  he  might  come 
again.  "  My  sister  is  with  me  at  the  Tower,"  he  said. 
"  She  is  very  anxious  to  make  your  acquaintance ; 
you  will  let  her  call,  I  hope." 

"  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  see  her,"  she  said  me- 
chanically, "if  she  cares  to  come." 

" And  perhaps,"  said  Jocelyn,  "you  will  come  to 
the  Tower  some  day." 

"  Oh  no,"  she  said,  very  decidedly,  with  a  little 
blaze  of  angry  color  in  her  cheeks;  " most  certainly 
I  shall  not." 

"  But  why  not  ?  "  he  persisted.  "  It  was  your 
father's  house,  and  we  do  not  want  to  keep  you  away." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  was  under  the  impression 
that  you  wished  to  keep  me  away  altogether.  I  have 
never  been  inside  Daunay's  Tower  in  my  life,  and  you 
will  please  understand,  Mr.  Dauiiay.  that  unless  I  come 
there  as  its  mistress  I  do  not  come  at  all." 

"  Come  there  as  its  mistress,  by  all  means,"  said 
Jocelyn,  with  a  sudden  lighting  up  of  his  whole  face, 
which  Annabel  did  not  understand.  "I  can  guar- 
antee," he  went  on,  "as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you 


Rivals.  237 

need  never  come  there  as  anything  else  but  its  mis- 
tress." But  he  spoke  from  a  point  of  view  which  An- 
nabel had  not  yet  learned  to  realize. 

As  she  paused  for  a  moment,  in  some  perplexity,  her 
eye  was  caught  by  the  approach  of  a  vehicle  on  the 
long  winding  road  from  the  village  of  High  Rigg.  It 
was  not  the  doctor's  dog-cart  this  time,  with  its  jin- 
gling harness  and  bright  red  wheels.  It  seemed  more 
like  a  little  pony  carriage  containing  one  person  only 
beside  the  driver,  and  Jocelyn  could  not  repress  a  start 
— the  lady  in  the  carriage  was  Mrs.  TVycherly,  who,  he 
remembered,  had  that  very  morning  been  asking  him 
whether  she  could  obtain  a  carriage  of  any  sort  at  the 
inn,  as  she  thought  that  a  little  fresh  air  would  do 
her  good.  Jocelyn  knew  very  well  that  this  was  a  hint 
for  him  to  offer  to  drive  her  about  the  country,  but  he 
was  not  in  the  least  disposed  to  take  the  hint,  and  had 
therefore  handed  her  over  to  the  care  of  his  sister  and 
sent  a  message  down  to  the  Daunay  Arms  for  the  best 
open  vehicle  that  Mr.  Grier  possessed.  It  seemed  as  if 
Edith  had  also  deserted  her  guest,  for  Lenore  was  alone, 
and  her  lovely  face  looked  remarkably  picturesque  be- 
neath a  broad  black  hat  with  ostrich  feathers,  and  a  be- 
wildering mixture  of  lace  and  fur  round  her  neck  to 
enhance  the  peach-like  bloom  of  her  velvety  skin. 

Annabel's  eyes  had  never  before  rested  on  such  a 
vision  of  beauty  and  elegance,  and  they  grew  larger 
with  wonder  as  the  carriage  passed.  But,  although 
she  knew  it  not,  she  was  in  her  own  way  quite  as  fair  a 
vision  as  the  more  modish  woman  of  the  world.  She 
wore  only  a  cotton  frock,  very  simply  made,  and  faintly 
blue  in  color.  The  straw  hat  on  her  head  had  been 
browned  by  the  suns  of  many  seasons  ;  but  these  dra\v- 


238  Daunay's  Tower. 

backs  were,  as  Jocelyn  considered,  insignificant  in  com- 
parison with  her  wild-rose  complexion  and  her  wonder- 
fully beautiful  eyes.  The  white  bird  on  her  shoulder 
seemed  to  emphasize  the  serenity  and  innocence  of  her 
appearance ;  and  it  was  almost  with  a  sigh  of  envy 
that  Lenore  sank  back  in  the  carriage  after  having 
bowed  to  Jocelyn  with  an  astonished  lift  of  her  eye- 
brows and  a  smile  which  seemed  to  show  that  she  sus- 
pected him  possibly  of  making  love  to  some  unsophis- 
ticated peasant  girl. 

"  Do  you  know  that  lady  ?  How  beautiful  she  is  ! " 
said  Annabel  when  the  carriage  had  passed. 

"  Yes,  I  know  her,"  Jocelyn  answered.  "  She  is  stay- 
ing for  a  few  days  at  the  Tower.  She  is  a  friend  of  my 
sister's."  He  hoped  that  he  might  be  pardoned  for 
this  perversion  of  the  truth. 

"She  is  quite  lovely,"  said  Annabel,  frankly.  "I 
wonder  if  people  like  that  are  as  good  as  they  are 
beautiful  ?  " 

11  It  would  hardly  be  possible,  would  it  ?  "  said 
Jocelyn,  a  little  cynically. 

"  If  I  were  that  lady,"  said  Annabel,  laughing,  "  I 
think  I  should  like  to  try.  She  reminds  me  of  some- 
body. I  wonder  who  it  is  ?  "  She  paused  for  a  moment 
with  her  finger  laid  reflectively  on  her  lips.  "  I  know," 
she  said,  at  length.  "It  is  Dr.  Eugene." 

"Dr.   who  ?" 

"  Dr.  Lechmere.  I  have  known  him  all  my  life,  you 
know,  and  I  often  call  him  Dr.  Eugene  as  a  sort  of  pet 
name.  It  is  curious  ;  he  is  not  exactly  handsome,  and 
yet  he  is  like  that  lady." 

"Now  you  mention  it,"  said  Jocelyn,  "  I  was  troubled, 
the  first  time  I  studied  Dr.  Lechmere's  face  by  a  faint 


Rivals.  239 

resemblance  to  some  one  I  knew.  You  are  right ; 
there  is  a  sort  of  resemblance  between  him  and  Mrs. 
Wycherly." 

"  Surely,"  said  Annabel,  reflectively,  "he  cannot  be 
related  to  anybody  like  that  ?  " 

"  Why  not— like  that  ?  "  said  Jocelyn. 

She  laughed  out  frankly.  "Dr.  Lechmere  does  not 
seem  that  sort  of  person,  does  he  ?  He  is  so  very  frank 
and  unconventional  ;  so  very  abrupt  in  his  ways.  That 
beautiful  lady  does  not  look  as  if  she  could  be  brusque, 
if  she  tried." 

"No,  I  don't  think  she  could  be.  To  be  with  her  is 
like  breathing  the  atmosphere  of  a  hothouse.  It  is  all 
perfume  and  warmth  and  color.  I  prefer  the  clear 
mountain  air  and  the  flowers  of  the  hillside."  There 
was  unmistakable  significance  in  his  voice  and  his  eyes. 
It  brought  the  color  to  Annabel's  cheek,  and  she  was 
vexed  to  feel  that  it  did  so.  To  cover  her  blush,  she 
made  a  laughing  remark.  "  The  world  likes  the  hot- 
house flowers  best,"  she  said,  "  and  pays  for  them  most 
dearly." 

"  The  hothouse  flowers  are  never  loved  like  the  wild 
blossoms,"  said  Jocelyn. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  said  the  girl,  with  some  reserve.  "  I 
do  not  know  very  much  about  hothouses  ;  nor  about 
the  world,  you  see." 

"  No,  you  are  the  mountain  blossom,"  said  Jocelyn ; 
and  he  managed  to  look  the  compliment  which  his  lips 
did  not  dare  to  say. 

"  I  must  go  to  my  aunt,"  said  the  girl.  "  Good 
morning,  Mr.  Daunay.  If  you  turn  to  the  right  you 
will  probably  meet  your  friend,  and  can  drive  home 
with  her." 


240  Daunay's  Tower. 

"Many  thanks,"  said  Jocelyn.  "I  think  I  prefer 
to  walk/'  He  did  not  know  whether  she  meant  to 
shake  hands  with  him  or  not  ;  but,  as  he  raised  his 
hat,  she  held  out  her  hand  with  a  faint,  amused  little 
smile. 

"  Good-by,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  your 
sister,  if  she  will  call."  This  was  a  great  concession 
on  her  part,  and  came  from  the  remembrance  of  the 
words  that  Dr.  Lechmere  had  used  to  her,  reminding 
her  that  Jocelyn  was  also  to  be  considered  "  a  verte- 
brate animal/'  He  would  not  have  been  very  much  flat- 
tered if  he  had  known  the  origin  of  her  smile.  He  had 
no  fancy  to  meet  Mrs.  Wycherly,  and  therefore  swung 
down  the  road  in  the  direction  of  High  Rigg  at  a  good 
pace.  But  he  had  not  allowed  for  a  cross  cut  which  it 
seemed  that  the  driver  had  taken  on  his  way  home. 
For,  before  he  entered  the  village,  the  pony-carriage 
had  overtaken  him  and  drew  up  in  the  middle  of  the 
road. 

"  Do  let  me  drive  you  home,"  said  Lenore,  with  her 
sweetest  smile.  "  Dear  Edith  was  busy  this  morning, 
but  as  yon  so  kindly  ordered  the  carriage  for  me  I 
thought  that  I  would  take  a  little  drive." 

"  If  I  had  known  that  you  would  be  alone  I  should 
have  been  most  happy  to  escort  you.  Where  is  Eeynold 
this  morning  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  has  gone  to  see  some  friends,  who  have  a 
place  in  this  neigh  borhood,"  said  Lenore.  "  He  knows 
Cumberland  pretty  well,  and  has  friends  in  every  direc- 
tion. What  a  lovely  creature  you  were  talking  to  just 
now  !  Who  can  she  be  ?  " 

"  She  is  the  niece  of  one  of  old  Mr.  Daunay's  ten- 
ants," said  Jocelyn,  calmly,  "  One  of  my  tenants, 


Rivals.  241 

perhaps  I  ought  to  say.  But  I  suppose  you  know  that 
there  is  some  little  difficulty  about  my  title  to  the 
estate  ? " 

His  lips  curled  rather  maliciously  as  he  asked  the 
question. 

Lenore  turned  her  soft  brown  eyes  upon  him.  "  In- 
deed, I  didn't  know,"  with  an  accent  of  genuine  hor- 
ror. "  But,  of  course,  it  is  all  nonsense,  and  you  will 
keep  possession  of  the  place." 

"I  am  not  sure,"  said  Jocelyn,  lightly.  He  was 
amused  at  the  situation,  for  he  knew  how  much  im- 
portance Mrs.  Wycherly  attached  to  wealth  and  posi- 
tion, and  now  that  his  infatuation  for  her  was  over,  he 
was  disposed  to  play  with  her  predilections  as  a  cat 
plays  with  a  mouse.  "  I  think  it  is  highly  probable 
that  the  place  will  pass  out  of  my  hands  altogether, 
and  then  I  shall  be  worse  off  than  ever,  for  I  may  be 
called  upon  to  pay  up  certain  sums  which  have  been 
made  over  to  me  from  the  estate.  So,  for  all  that  I 
know,  beggary  and  ruin  lie  before  me." 

"  You  take  it  very  cheerfully,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly. 

"  Don't  you  remember,  I  always  told  you  that  I 
didn't  much  value  wealth,"  he  said.  And  there  was  a 
carelessness  in  his  voice  which  made  Lenore  look  at 
him  curiously.  He  was  older,  she  noticed,  more  of  a 
man  than  when  she  first  knew  him.  He  seemed  quite 
independent  of  her  opinion  now. 

"  Is  there  another  claimant,  then,  to  the  estate  ?  " 
she  asked,  a  little  jealously.  "  I  remember  you  spoke 
to  me  of  a  daughter.  But  did  she  not  die  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  it.  She  did  not  die,"  said  Jocelyn, 
"  although  Mr.  Daunay,  in  a  fit  of  passion,  represented, 
for  his  own  ends,  that  she  was  dead.  But  she  is  alive 
16 


242  Daunay's  Tower. 

and  well,  and  I  myself  am  quite  convinced  that  old 
Mr.  Daunay's  property  ought  to  belong  to  her." 

"  But,  my  dear  Jocelyn,"  Lenore  said,  incredulously, 
"  are  you  quite  sure  ?  Didn't  Mr.  Daunay  leave  you  the 
estate  by  will  ?  " 

"  He  left  it  to  his  next  of  kin,"  said  Jocelyn,  with 
a  laugh  ;  "  and  a  daughter  is  presumably  nearer  of  kin 
than  a  first  cousin  once  removed.  When  the  facts  are 
all  established  I  shall  not  have  a  leg  to  stand  on,  and  I 
don't  suppose  the  matter  will  pass  through  a  court  at 
all.  We  shall  just  settle  it  amicably,  Miss  Daunay 
and  I." 

"Is  she  young  ?" 

"  Quite  young,"  said  Jocelyn,  with  laudable  gravity. 

"  You  told  me  of  old  Mr.  Daunay's  plan.  Was  she 
the  girl  whom  he  wanted  you  to  marry  ?  " 

"  Exactly.  And,  with  the  greatest  possible  wisdom, 
Miss  Daunay  refused  to  do  so." 

"  My  poor  Jocelyn  " — she  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
arm  with  a  pretty,  caressing  movement — "how  badly 
you  have  been  treated  !  I  have  never  heard  of  a  more 
distressing  case.  And  what  a  harpy  the  girl  must  be. 
Why  does  she  not  offer  at  least  to  divide  the  property 
with  you  ?  " 

"  If  she  did  I  don't  think  I  should  like  to  take  it. 
No  ;  she  is  quite  welcome  to  the  estate — Daunay's 
Tower  and  all,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I  have  dif- 
ferent views  for  myself." 

Lenore  took  the  remark  as  referring  to  herself. 
"Ah,  Jocelyn,"  she  said,  with  a  plaintive  sigh,  "we 
can't  all  be  quite  happy  in  our  emotions,  much  as  we 
should  like  it.  You  will  have  to  marry  an  heiress. 
You  might  even  marry  Miss  Daunay  herself." 


Rivals.  243 

"  I  tell  you  she  has  refused  me  already,"  said  Joce- 
lyn  quickly. 

"  Possibly  she  had  not  seen  you  then.  That  makes 
such  a  difference  sometimes,"  with  her  head  on  one 
side.  "  Unfortunately,  heiresses  are  almost  always 
ugly,  poor  things.  Perhaps  she  is  deformed,  or  sickly, 
or  betrays  her  origin  in  some  way.  Her  mother  was 
quite  a  peasant  woman,  I  have  heard." 

"Don't  go  on,  please,"  said  Jocelyn  coldly.  "I 
may  as  well  tell  you  that  the  young  lady  whom  you 
admired  so  much  just  now  is  my  cousin — Annabel  Dau- 
nay  ;  and  I  have  every  intention,  by  and  by,  of  asking 
her  to  become  my  wife." 

He  had  been  driven  into  making  this  announcement, 
and  regretted  it  immediately  afterwards. 

Mrs.  Wycherly  laughed  aloud.  "  What  a  laudable 
determination  I "  she  said ;  and  Jocelyn  wished  that 
he  had  bitten  out  his  tongue  before  he  spoke  the 
words. 

After  this  little  skirmish,  conversation  languished 
for  a  time.  Jocelyn  was  vexed  with  himself  for  having 
said  so  much.  Mrs.  Wycherly  was  pensively  inclined. 
But  when  the  village  was  reached,  Jocelyn  bethought 
himself  of  his  duties  as  a  host,  and  began  to  point  out 
the  few  objects  of  interest  that  High  Rigg  contained. 
There  was  the  little  white  church,  the  schoolhouse, 
the  old-fashioned  inn,  the  cobble-stones  with  which  the 
road  was  paved,  and  the  queer  old  bridge  across  the 
stream.  Lenore  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "The 
scenery  is  beautiful !"  she  said,  "  but  your  architecture 
does  not  appeal  to  me.  And  I  suppose  you  are  the 
only  gentlefolk  in  the  place  ?  " 

''The   Marchants  are   our   nearest  neighbors,  and 


244  Daunay's  Tower. 

they  are  three  miles  away.  But  there  is  a  very  nice 
old  clergyman,  and  a  clever  doctor." 

"So  Edith  said." 

"  Yes ;  he  has  quite  a  reputation  about  here.  I 
have  heard  that  Lord  Kershaw  says  he  would  not  trust 
many  a  big  London  man  so  much  as  he  would  trust 
Dr.  Lechmere." 

"Dr.  who?" 

"  Lechmere.  Eugene  Lechmere.  Do  you  know  the 
name  ?  "  said  Jocelyn,  suddenly  conscious  of  her  pale- 
ness and  of  the  startled  look  upon  her  face. 

"Why,  it  was  my  own  maiden  name,"  she  said  re- 
covering herself  with  a  laugh.  "It  quite  startled  me 
when  you  mentioned  it.  I  wonder  if  he  is  a  relation 
of  mine." 

"  We  might  ask  him  to  dinner  and  then  we  should 
see  ! " 

"  Oh,  don't  trouble  to  do  that ;  I  scarcely  feel  equal 
to  seeing  strangers,"  said  Lenore,  with  her  most  be- 
witching smile,  "  though  I  feel  that  this  exquisite  air 
is  doing  me  a  great  deal  of  good.  But  I  shall  have  to 
call  him  in  professionally  if  I  have  another  attack  of 
neuralgia,  and  ask  him  for  something  to  brace  me  up 
for  that  long,  wearisome  journey  to  London,  which  I 
dread  so  much." 

"  Don't  go  until  you  feel  equal  to  it,"  said  Jocelyn, 
kindly.  "  The  house  is  at  your  disposal  as  long  as  ever 
you  like.  The  accommodation  is  too  poor  for  you  ;  that 
is  the  only  thing  which  prevents  me  from  pressing  you 
to  stay." 

"  On  the  contrary.  I  am  most  comfortable,"  said 
Mrs.  Wycherly.  "If  I  do  not  inconvenience  you,  I 
feel  sure  that  a  few  days'  rest  and  quiet  would  do  me 


Rivals.  245 

all  the  good  in  the  world.  Are  you  sure  Edith  will  not 
mind  if  I  stay  just  a  little  while  ?" 

"If  it  does  you  good  she  will  be  delighted,"  said 
Jocelyn,  with  emphasis.  "  Of  course  you  understand 
that  my  own  tenure  of  the  place  is  somewhat  precari- 
ous ;  1  should  never  have  set  foot  within  it  myself  with- 
out Miss  Annabel  Daunay's  permission,  and  we  might 
have  to  turn  out  at  any  moment.  But  as  long  as  we 
are  here,  we  are  most  pleased  to  have  you  for  a  guest." 

"How  changed  he  is!"  thought  Mrs.  Wycherly  to 
herself.  "  He  was  a  boy  before  ;  he  is  a  man  now  ! " 
And  she  liked  him  better  than  she  had  ever  done  in  his 
boyish  days.  But  aloud  she  only  answered  sweetly — 

"  It  is  indeed  very  kind  of  you.  And  I  will  see  your 
clever  doctor  to-morrow,  if  you  will  be  so  good  as  to 
let  him  know." 

"  He  is  there,"  said  Jocelyn,  suddenly  descrying 
Lechmere's  alert  figure  emerging  from  one  of  the 
houses  in  the  village  street.  "  Excuse  me,  I'll  speak 
to  him.  Stop,  driver  !  " 

And  as  the  carriage  stopped,  Eugene  Lechmere 
stopped  also,  and  stared  at  the  woman  at  Jocelyn's  side 
as  if  she  had  been  a  ghost. 


246  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTEE  XXV. 

NEAR   RELATIONS. 

"  DR.  LECHMERE  to  see  you,  ma'am." 

"Very  well ;  let  him  come  up,"  said  Mrs.  "Wycherly, 
languidly.  It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day,  and 
she  had  declared  herself  too  tired  to  go  down  to  tea. 
Her  own  bedroom  was  a  very  comfortable  one,  and  she 
told  her  maid  that  she  would  remain  there  until  the 
doctor  had  been.  "  He  has  the  same  surname  as  my 
own  before  I  was  married,  Abbott,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly, 
in  her  innocent  way ;  "  and  I  want  so  much  to  find 
out  whether  he  is  a  connection  of  my  family.  So  you 
can  bring  him  up-stairs  when  he  comes  ;  one  can  talk 
much  more  comfortably  here  than  in  a  sitting-room." 

Abbott  was  usually  somewhat  suspicious  of  her  mis- 
tress's arrangements  ;  she  had  generally  found  that 
when  Mrs.  Wycherly  said  one  thing  she  meant  another. 
On  this  occasion  there  really  did  not  seem  to  be  any 
reason  for  thinking  that  she  had  any  hidden  intentions. 
Nevertheless,  there  had  seldom  been  a  moment  in 
Lenore's  life  when  she  more  anxiously  desired  to  con- 
ceal the  real  reason  for  her  actions. 

She  had  looked  into  Dr.  Lechmere's  eyes  that  morn- 
ing and  said  nothing  ;  she  had  had  the  advantage  of  at 
least  a  moment's  preparation,  and  she  availed  herself  of 
it  to  the  uttermost.  But  he,  rigid,  colorless,  utterly 
shocked  and  horrified,  how  had  he  managed  to  explain 


Near  Relations.  247 

the  situation  to  Jocelyn's  satisfaction  ?  Fortunately 
Jocelyn  was  a  trifle  obtuse,  so  she  thought ;  she  might 
have  added  that  he  was  an  honorable  and  high-minded 
man,  who  did  not  attempt  to  pry  into  things  that  were 
no  concern  of  his,  and  who  thought  no  evil  without 
due  cause.  At  any  rate,  after  a  momentary  pause  and 
a  request  that  the  doctor  would  visit  Mrs.  Wycherly  in 
the  course  of  the  afternoon,  Jocelyn  had  told  the  driver 
to  go  on  to  Dannay's  Tower,  and  Lenore  had  breathed 
freely  once  again. 

She  heard  his  tread  on  the  oaken  boards  as  Abbott 
marshaled  him  to  her  room  ;  although  she  had  not 
heard  it  for  many  years,  she  told  herself  that  she  would 
have  known  it  anywhere.  The  door  opened,  and  he 
stood  before  her,  giving  her  the  conventional  greeting 
that  a  doctor  accords  to  his  patient,  this  time  evidently 
quite  composed.  The  maid  left  them  alone  together, 
and  Dr.  Lechmere,  standing  beside  the  high  carved 
mantelpiece,  said  very  quietly — 

"  Do  you  wish  me  to  prescribe  for  you  ?" 
"  Good  heavens,  no  !     At  least,  you  may  if  you  like  ; 
but  of  course  I  only  wanted  to  see  you  for  yourself — for 

your  own  sake " 

"  To  satisfy  your  curiosity  about  me,  in  fact,  and  to 
request  me  not  to  let  it  be  known  that  I  am  a  relation 
of  yours." 

'•'  Oh,  Eugene,  how  cruelly  you  express  yourself  \" 
"  I  always  did,  you  know,"  he  said,  looking  at  her 
coldly.  "  It  used  to  be  one  of  the  points  constantly  re- 
ferred to — at  home/'  He  said  the  last  two  words  in  a 
lower  tone,  as  if  he  felt  some  reluctance  in  pronouncing 
them.  "And  I  suppose  we  don't  change  much  in 
character  after  we  are  twenty-five." 


248  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  You  have  changed  a  great  deal,"  said  Lenore 
hurriedly.  "  I  never  saw  you  look  so  well — so  hand- 
some, Eugene.  You — you  were  an  ugly  little  wretch," 
— she  laughed  as  she  spoke — "  when  you  were  younger, 
you  know." 

"And  you  have  changed  very  little." 

"  Have  I  not  ?  Well,  I  suppose  not  ;  nobody  would 
ever  guess  that  1  was  nearly  forty.  Most  people  take 
me  for  seven-and-twenty  at  most.  It  is  twenty  years 
since  we  saw  each  other,  yet  I  recognized  you  imme- 
diately." 

"  Yes.  May  I  trouble  you  to  come  to  the  point  at 
once,  Lenore — or  should  I  say  Mrs.  Wycherly  ?  I  am  a 
very  busy  man  ;  and  I  conclude  that  you  did  not  send 
for  me  merely  to  comment  on  my  personal  appearance, 
or  to  hear  me  compliment  you  on  yours." 

Lenore  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "  You  were  always 
brutal,  Eugene." 

"  Always,"  Eugene  agreed.  "  And  I  shall  probably 
remain  brutal  until  the  day  of  my  death.  Anything 
else  ?  " 

"  Of  course — it  may  sound  unkind — but — you  will 
not  tell  Jocelyn  Daunay  that  you  are  rny  brother,  will 
you  ?  " 

"Cela  depend.  I  was  not  intending  to  do  so  imme- 
diately ;  but  I  should  rather  like  to  know  what  reason 
you  have  to  the  contrary." 

"  I  should  think  there  were  reasons  enough,"  cried 
Lenore,  indignantly.  "  I  must  say  I  think  it  is  a  little 
too  bad  of  you  to  have  kept  your  name.  For  dear  papa's 
sake,  at  least,  you  might  have  changed  it  when — when 
you  came  out  of  prison." 

Engene  Lechmere  bit  his  mustache  viciously.     "It 


Near  Relations.  249 

would  have  been  rather  late  then,  would  it  not  ?  The 
mischief  was  done,  you  see.  And  is  he — is  he — alive  ?  " 

"  Oh  yes,  he  is  alive,"  said  Lenore,  with  an  im- 
patient twitch  of  her  hand.  "Of  course  we  thought 
he  would  die,  when  all  that  horrible  business  occurred  ; 
he  was  quite  heartbroken,  because,  you  know,  he  was 
awfully  fond  of  you,  Eugene,  although  he  came  down 
upon  you  now  and  then."  She  glanced  doubtfully  at 
her  brother's  face  :  it  was  hard  and  cold  as  stone. 
"  And  he  was  very  ill,  but  he  got  over  it  at  last,  and  he 
is  quite  hale  and  strong  now,  although  he  is  nearly 
eighty  years  of  age." 

"And  the  rest  of  the  family  ?  if  I  may  ask." 

"  They  are  all  very  well  :  mostly  married  and  pros- 
perous. I'm  the  most  unlucky  person  in  the  family. 
I  married  under  the  impression  that  Mr.  Wycherly  was 
a  rich  man,  and  he  left  me  almost  penniless.  I  am 
always  getting  into  money  difficulties." 

"  I  remember — you  could  never  make  ends  meet  with 
your  dress  allowance,"  said  her  brother,  gravely  stating 
the  fact. 

"  Because  I  never  had  enough  !  All  the  others  have 
done  extremely  well  for  themselves,  and  Willy  is  in 
Parliament." 

"  Yes,  I  often  see  Will's  name." 

"  And  Robert  married  a  very  rich  woman,  and  Isabel 
is  Lady  Kerr.  Susan  was  only  a  child  when  you  left 
us,  but  you  will  remember  her  :  she  married  a  mil- 
lionaire." 

"  It  seems,  then,  that  my  painful  experience  did  not 
greatly  affect  the  fortunes  of  the  family,"  said  Eugene, 
with  a  rather  bitter  smile. 

"  I  hope  there  is  such  a  thing  as  living  down  un- 


250  Daunay's  Tower. 

merited  misfortune,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly.  "  Certainly 
it  would  be  very  unfair  if  we  had  had  to  suffer  all  our 
lives  from  the  effects  of  your  wrong-doing,  Eugene." 

"It  seems  I  have  not  that  to  reproach  myself  with/' 

"  I  doubt  whether  you  reproach  yourself  with  any- 
thing/' said  Lenore,  in  a  tone  that  might  almost  be 
called  acrid.  "If  there  was  one  thing  in  the  world 
that  dear  papa  wanted,  it  was  that  you  should  leave  the 
country.  In  America  or  Australia,  you  would  have 
been  far  happier,  and  we  should  have  felt  safe.  Really, 
now  that  I  know  you  are  still  in  England,  I  shall  never 
take  up  a  newspaper  with  comfort  again." 

"  For  fear  I  should  have  poisoned  my  patients  ?  "  said 
the  doctor,  ironically. 

"Well,  one  does  not  know  what  might  come  out 
next.  And  what  I  particularly  wished  to  impress  upon 
you  was  that  it  would  be  most  awkward  for  me,  if  I 
came  to  live  in  this  neighborhood,  to  have  you  here  at 
my  very  door,  attending  my  friends,  going  to  the  same 
houses " 

"Excuse  me.  I  only  visit  professionally.  I  do  not 
attend  social  gatherings." 

"  But  even  then  I  should  have  to  meet  you  ;  and  if 
it  came  out — and  of  course  lots  of  people  know  your 
story — do  think  how  disagreeable  it  would  be  for  me  ! 
Could  you  not  go  somewhere  else  ?  Surely  this  place 
is  not  so  very  attractive  that  you  need  live  in  it  all  your 
life  ?  I  would  speak  to  Reynold  Harding — or  even  to 
papa — about  you,  and  they  would  furnish  you  with 
funds  to  go  abroad  anywhere,  so  that  you  left  this  place 
at  once." 

"  Left  this  place  !  Lenore,  have  you  any  notion  of 
what  vou  are  suggesting  that  I  should  do  ?  " 


Near  Relations.  251 

Lenore  opened  her  lovely  eyes  at  him.  "  What  is 
there  remarkable  about  it  ?  Yon  would  be  dreadfully 
in  my  way  here.  And  surely  you  owe  something  to 
your  family." 

"  I  came  here  twenty  years  ago,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere 
composedly.  "  I  had  nobody  to  back  me  up.  I  was  a 
disgraced  and  ruined  man.  I  was  told  that  I  had  no 
right  to  practise  medicine  at  all.  I  chose  out  this  place 
because  the  doctor  had  just  died,  and  there  seemed  to 
be  an  opening  ;  and  I  have  stuck  to  it  ever  since,  almost 
starving  sometimes,  looked  on  with  suspicion  and  dis- 
like, but  steady  to  my  resolve  never  to  be  beaten,  never 
to  yield  an  inch  to  the  enemy — to  the  devil  of  despair, 
I  mean,  that  seemed  sometimes  to  have  me  by  the 
throat !  I've  succeeded  to  some  extent ;  at  any  rate,  I 
have  a  big — though  a  poor — practise.  I  am  known  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  I  have  a  friend  here  and  there  ; 
and  you  come  here,  with  your  airs  and  pretenses  " — his 
voice  grew  rough  with  anger — "  you,  who  have  never 
sent  me  a  kind  message,  nor  held  out  a  helping  hand  to 
me  for  twenty  years  ! — and  ask  me  to  throw  it  all  up, 
to  seek  another  home,  to  give  up  all  I  have  gained  !  to 
'go  away,  forsooth,  because  you  would  find  it  disagree- 
able to  have  me  at  your  door  !  No ;  before  God,  I 
won't !  I  shall  stay  here  as  long  as  I  choose,  and  do 
my  duty  by  my  patients,  as  I  have  done  for  twenty 
years ! " 

"You  were  always  so  violent,  Eugene."  The  tears 
stood  in  Lenore's  soft  eyes.  "  I  wish  you  would  speak 
gently — and  I  see  you  have  not  lost  your  old,  wicked 
habit  of  using  profane  expressions  when  you  are  angry  ! 
I  am  sure  I  should  not  like  to  be  a  patient  of  yours.  I 
think  people  ought  to  know  the  fate  of  one  of  your 


252  Daunay's  Tower. 

patients  at  any  rate.  I  once  heard  Eeynold  say  that  if 
he  found  you  were  practising  again,  he  should  think  it 
his  duty  to  expose  you '' 

"Let  him  expose  me,  by  all  means,"  said  Dr.  Lech- 
mere,  looking  very  black  and  grim  as  he  stood  erect  on 
the  hearthrug,  with  his  hands  behind  him  and  his  eyes 
extremely  bright.  "  I  have  never  denied  the  facts  or 
refused  to  answer  a  question  about  them  during  the  last 
twenty  years.  You  and  Eeynold  Harding  are  quite  at 
liberty  to  say  what  you  please.  Only,  I  thought  you 
were  afraid  that  the  consequences  would  recoil  on  your 
own  head  !  I  certainly  don't  think  they  would  hurt 
mine." 

"  You  are  perhaps  a  little  too  confident.  I  should 
never  hesitate  to  speak  where  my  duty  was  concerned." 

"  Oh,  very  well,"  said  Eugene,  with  a  gleam  of  hu- 
mor striking  across  the  gloom  of  his  face.  "  I  know 
that  I  can  safely  leave  you  to  follow  your  conscience. 
And,  in  the  meantime,  allow  me  to  ask  where  you  think 
of  establishing  yourself  ?  What  good  man  in  the  neigh- 
borhood are  you  going  to  make  happy  ?  " 

"  You  are  so  sarcastic,  Eugene  ;  one  never  could 
speak  freely  to  you.  But  if  I  tell  you,  I  suppose  I  may 
rely  on  you  not  to  repeat  what  I  say  ?  " 

The  doctor  bowed. 

"As  far  as  you  can  rely  on  me  for  anything.  But 
you  scarcely  call  me  a  trustworthy  person  ;  do  you  ?  " 

"Well,  if  you  betray  my  confidence,  I  can  always 
tell  your  story,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly,  with  a  spitef ulness 
which  seemed  to  overcloud  all  her  beauty  in  Dr.  Lech- 
mere's  eyes.  "  I  hold  your  character  in  the  hollow  of 
my  hand." 

"So  you  think." 


Near  Relations.  253 

"  Yon  know  I  do.  I  am  going  to  marry  Jocelyn 
Daunay." 

Eugene  faced  her  suddenly.     "  What  do  you  say  ?" 

"  Yon  hear,"  she  said  defiantly.  "  I  am  going  to 
marry  Jocelyn  Daunay  of  Dau nay's  Tower." 

"You  are  not  engaged  to  him  ?"  The  doctor's  eye 
was  suddenly  watchful  and  alert. 

"  Well,  not  exactly  ;  but  he  has  said  a  great  deal, 
hinted  a  great  deal  more.  Oh,  he  has  been  my  faith- 
ful admirer  for  the  last  twelve  months  or  eighteen 
months,  in  fact.  And  now  I  have  decided  that  I  will 
marry  him." 

"  But  you  know  that  he  is  not  the  owner  of  Daunay's 
Tower  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  believe  that  story." 

"  Don't  you  ?  Really.  But  I  am  afraid  it  happens 
to  be  true." 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  "  I  thought  it  was 
merely  an  excuse " 

"  To  save  him  from  marrying  you  ?  " 

"  Yon  are  detestable,  Eugene.  I  really  want  to 
know  the  whole  story,  if  you  can  tell  it  me.  He  has  a 
sort  of  tendresse  for  this  little  cousin  of  his  at  present ; 
but  I  think  I  can  make  sure  of  him." 

"  He  has  made  love  to  you  ?  "  said  Eugene,  knitting 
his  brows. 

"  Why,  of  course  he  has  ;  a  hundred  times.  He  is  a 
dear  boy,  and  I  am  quite  fond  of  him.  Don't  you  think 
you  could  help  me  ?" 

"How?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  by  and  by.  If  you  will  help  me,  I 
will  withdraw  my  oppsition  to  yonr  living  in  this  neigh- 
borhood, Eugene " 


254  •     Daunay's  Tower. 

"Thank  you,  my  dear." 

"  And  I  will  tell  everybody  that  you  are  a  connec- 
tion of  mine,  and  that  you  are  most  respectable,  only 
a  little  eccentric  ;  that  will  rehabilitate  your  character, 
you  know  !  And  then  we  can  be  good  friends  after  all. 
Only,  you  will  have  to  keep  out  of  the  way  if  papa  conies 
to  visit  me." 

A  momentary  contraction  was  visible  on  Eugene 
Lechmere's  brow — the  outward  sign  of  that  inward 
throb  of  agony  which  no  one  could  awake  in  him  so 
keenly  as  one  of  his  own  name  and  race.  He  kept  si- 
lence for  a  moment,  his  native  keenness  of  instinct  com- 
ing to  his  aid.  What  scheme  was  Lenore  hatching  now  ! 
It  did  not  seem  to  be  one  that  was  likely  to  conduce  to 
the  happiness  of  Jocelyn  or  of  Annabel.  "Would  it  not 
be  well  for  him  to  appear  to  throw  in  his  lot  with  that 
of  his  sister,  and  then  obtain  possession  of  the  plot  which 
she  seemed  inclined  to  weave  ?  He  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"  I  will  do  what  I  can,"  he  said,  "  but  I  cannot  stay 
any  longer  now.  I  will  pay  you  another  professional 
visit  to-morrow,  then  we  can  have  a  little  more  conversa- 
tion." 

"  Very  well.  But  you  had  better  order  me  some- 
thing. And  say  that  the  air  of  these  hills  is  so  good 
for  me  that  I  had  better  not  go  south  just  yet." 

Dr.  Lechmere  wrote  a  prescription  with  his  most 
cynical  smile. 


Betha's  Work-Box.  255 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
BETHA'S   WORK-BOX. 

MRS.  WYCHERLY'S  visit  to  Daunay's  Tower  did  not 
prevent  Edith  and  Jocelyn  from  giving  a  good  deal  of 
time  to  the  examination  of  John  Daunay's  papers. 
Mr.  Clissold  offered  to  send  down  a  clerk  to  assist 
them,  but  Jocelyn  considered  that  he  and  his  sister 
could  do  the  work  sufficiently  well.  After  all,  there 
was  not  a  very  large  quantity  of  manuscript  to  be  in- 
spected. Mr.  Daunay  had  not  been  a  letter-writer  ;  he 
had  never  kept  a  diary ;  and  the  piles  of  bills  in  the 
housekeeper's  room,  the  copies  of  business  epistles  in 
the  study,  did  not  promise  much  of  interest  or  value. 

It  was  with  a  feeling  of  respect,  almost  of  awe,  that 
Jocelyn  first  penetrated  to  that  older  portion  of  the  build- 
ing which  had  been  the  original  "  Daunay's  Tower." 
Here  Annabel  had  first  seen  the  light,  here  Betha  Dau- 
nay had  drawn  her  latest  breath.  How  strangely  mat- 
ters had  entangled  themselves  since  that  day  !  Jocelyn 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  that  upper  room  as  if  he 
scarcely  dared  to  enter  ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  Betha's 
spirit  might  still  linger  there. 

The  old  tower  contained  only  two  rooms,  one  above 
the  other,  and  a  steep  staircase  by  which  the  upper 
chamber  could  be  reached.  They  were  both  square  in 
shape,  and  dimly  lighted  by  narrow  windows  which 
showed  the  extreme  thickness  of  the  walls.  The  lower 


256  Daunay's  Tower. 

room  had  been  intended,  apparently,  for  a  man's  sitting- 
room  ;  there  were  fishing-rods  and  guns  on  the  walls, 
a  large  bureau  stood  between  the  windows,  and  a  nar- 
row camp  bedstead  had  been  stretched  beside  the  fire- 
place. A  chair  or  two  and  a  small  table  completed  the 
furniture,  and  there  was  some  crockery  in  a  cupboard 
near  the  door.  In  the  upper  room  the  arrangements 
were  far  more  extensive.  The  bed  was  big  and  curtained 
with  damask,  and  there  were  faded  damask  hangings 
before  the  windows  and  a  carpet  on  the  floor,  as  well 
as  pictures  on  the  walls,  and  a  rather  elaborate  toilet 
service  before  the  oval  mirror.  A  smaller  bedstead 
might  have  been  used,  Jocelyn  conjectured,  by  the 
nurse  ;  and  there  was  a  great  chintz  armchair,  in  which 
Annabel  perhaps  had  been  hushed  to  sleep  when  she  was 
a  baby-girl.  There  were  some  personal  signs  of  occupa- 
tion, also,  which  went  to  Jocelyn's  heart.  There  was 
an  old  inlaid  work-box,  lined  with  pink  silk,  and  half 
filled  with  reels  and  mother-of-pearl  silk  winders,  which 
he  glanced  at  almost  timidly.  Was  it  his  duty  to  open 
this  sacred  thing,  where  the  name  "  Betha,"  scratched 
on  the  wood,  showed  that  it  had  belonged  to  Annabel's 
mother,  and  ought  of  right  to  belong  now  to  Annabel  ? 
He  half  raised  the  lid  ;  a  dainty  bit  of  embroidery,  the 
needle  hanging  in  it  still,  first  met  his  eye.  Involun- 
tarily he  shut  the  lid  down,  and  put  the  box  aside. 
Annabel  should  be  the  first  to  see  the  work  that  her 
mother  had  left  incomplete.  It  was  probably  something 
for  the  baby  that  was  coming — something  which  poor 
Betha  had  not  finished  when  she  lay  down  to  die. 

Jocelyn  found  nothing  else  of  interest  in  the  room. 
But  he  conveyed  the  old  work-box  to  his  own  apartment 
and  wrapped  it  carefully  in  white  paper,  and  then  in 


Betha's  Work-Box.  257 

brown,  and  secured  it  with  strong  string,  before  he 
made  up  his  mind  to  carry  it  to  Moorside  Farm,  and 
give  it  himself  to  Annabel. 

The  fine  weather  of  early  autumn  had  been  suc- 
ceeded by  cold  winds  and  heavy  showers.  The  day  was 
not  wet,  but  very  gusty,  when  Jocelyn  walked  up  the 
hillside  with  the  work-box  under  his  arm.  It  was  a 
contrast  to  the  day  of  his  last  visit,  when  Annabel  in 
her  blue  dress  had  stood  at  the  gate  with  him,  caressing 
the  white  pigeon  on  her  shoulder,  and  reflecting  all 
heaven  in  her  eyes.  On  this  occasion  he  found  her  in 
the  parlor,  warmly  clad  in  the  soberest  of  browns,  a 
color  which  seemed  to  bring  out  the  gold  in  her  hair 
and  the  crystal  clearness  of  her  eyes  ;  she  was  sitting  at 
the  table  in  a  very  businesslike  way,  with  several  ac- 
count-books before  her,  and  a  look  of  intense  concen- 
tration and  anxiety  upon  her  brow.  She  rose  when 
Jocelyn  entered,  and  gave  him  her  hand,  then  remained 
standing,  as  if  she  expected  him  to  name  his  business 
and  go  away. 

"  My  aunt  is  in  bed.  She  was  wondering  if  you  had 
any  news  for  us." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  not.  I  cannot  find  any  papers 
of  value  at  the  Tower.  But  I  have  brought  you  some- 
thing which  ought  to  belong  to  you." 

"Ought  to  belong  to  me?  That  is  impossible. 
There  was  never  anything  that  belonged  to  me  at 
Dannay's  Tower." 

"Never?  What  belonged  to  your  mother  ought 
surely  to  belong  to  you." 

She  flushed  deeply,  and  her  eyes  softened.  She 
seemed  to  reflect  for  a  minute  or  two,  then  she  said 
more  gently — "Sit  down,  Mr.  Daunay  please.  It  is 


258  Daunay's  Tower. 

very  kind  of  you.  I  was  wrong.  I  had  forgotten — for 
the  moment — that  my  mother's  things  might  be  there. 
I  have  scarcely  anything  of  hers." 

"  I  think  it  is  her  work-box,"  said  Jocelyn,  placing 
the  square  brown  parcel  on  the  table.  "It  bears  her 
name,  and  therefore  I  thought  it  ought  to  belong  to 
you.  I  will  leave  it  with  you  ;  you  will  perhaps  find 
relics  of  her  which  you  would  like  to  examine  by  yourself. 
I  only  lifted  the  lid  for  a  moment ;  I  have  not  touched 
anything. " 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Daunay,  you  are  very  kind,"  said  Annabel, 
gratefully.  "  So  few  people  would  have  thought  of 
that.  But  I  don't  suppose  there  is  anything  left  here 
that  would  be  interesting;  unless — did  you  think  there 
might  be  letters  or  papers  ?"  she  added,  anxiously. 

"  I  did  not  think  of  them.  I  only  thought  there  might 
be  little  personal  things  that  you  would  care  to  keep." 

"'  But  that  is  not  right,"  said  Annabel,  recovering 
her  somewhat  imperious  tone  at  once.  "  What  do  you 
know  may  be  inside  this  box  ?  The  very  papers  that 
we  are  looking  for  !  I  will  not  open  it  unless  you  are 
here  to  see." 

"  Oh,  please,  do  not  put  me  in  that  position.  Don't 
you  suppose  I  can  trust  you  to  tell  me  if  there  is  any- 
thing important  in  that  box  ?  " 

"  You  may  trust  me,  but  Mr.  Clissold  would  not. 
Think  of  what  Mr.  Clissold  would  say.  I  am  sure  Dr. 
Lechmere  too  would  tell  you  that  you  were  doing  a 
very  unwise  thing — in  my  interest  as  well  as  in  your 
own,  Mr.  Daunay.  For  who  is  to  say  what  I  put  into 
this  box,  even  if  I  take  nothing  important  out !  " 

"  Your  argument  is  unanswerable,  just  because  it  is 
without  reason,"  said  Jocelyn,  very  gravely.  "  There- 


Betha's  Work-Box.  259 

fore,  if  you  like,  I  will  be  present  while  yon  open  the 
box.  But  you  are  doing  away  with  the  pleasure  I  hoped 
to  give  you — and  also  to  receive." 

She  put  out  her  slim  hand  to  him,  and  he  saw  with 
surprise  that  her  eyes  had  filled  with  tears.  "  I  am  so 
sorry,"  she  said.  "  I  know  I  seem  most  ungracious, 
most  unfeeling  ;  but  indeed  that  is  not  what  I  really 
am.  It  is  only  that  I  have  been  made  so — so  sore,  so 
unhappy,  by  what  these  lawyers  have  said  of  me  !  I 
know  you  don't  suspect  me  ;  and  yet,  for  the  sake  of 
my  own  reputation,  I  think  I  must  ask  you  to  behave 
as  if  you  did." 

"  I  don't  think  anything  of  you  but  what  is  gracious 
and  womanly ;  I  quite  understand.  Now,  will  you 
open  the  box  ?  Take  it  over  to  the  table  by  the  window ; 
you  will  have  more  light  there." 

She  saw  that  he  made  this  suggestion  so  that  she 
might  turn  her  back  to  him  and  hide  her  face  if  she 
chose  while  she  opened  the  box  ;  she  thanked  him  with 
her  eyes,  but  shook  her  head.  "  I  will  open  it  here," 
she  answered  quietly. 

He  did  not  offer  to  cut  the  string  or  to  remove  the 
wrappings  from  the  box ;  he  knew  very  well  that  she 
would  much  prefer  to  do  all  these  things  for  herself. 
The  brown  paper  and  the  white  lay  presently  on  the 
little  sofa  ;  the  old-fashioned  box  of  inlaid  woods,  with 
a  pearly  center-pattern  upon  the  lid,  and  lock  of  the 
same  material,  stood  before  the  girl  whose  fingers 
trembled  as  she  handled  her  mother's  treasure.  She 
opened  it,  and  looked  reverently  at  the  spools  and  peai-1 
winders  ;  there  were  still  some  skeins  of  yellow  and 
white  silk  laid  in  one  of  the  compartments  of  the  upper 
tray.  Annabel  took  the  embroidered  muslin  and  looked 


260  Daunay's  Tower. 

at  it  ;  she  saw  the  place  where  the  needle  had  been  last 
thrust  into  the  flimsy  stuff.  "  It  is  a  little  sleeve — a 
baby's  sleeve,"  she  said  more  to  herself  than  to  Jocelyn. 
And  then — "Oh,  mother,  mother!"  she  cried,  and, 
bending  down  her  face,  she  burst  into  passionate  tears. 

"  What  a  fool  I  was  to  bring  it  ! "  Jocelyn  groaned  to 
himself.  But  he  did  not  know  that  she  came  nearer 
to  loving  him  for  that  gift  of  his  than  for  anything  she 
had  yet  seen  in  his  character  or  behavior.  And  when 
presently  she  grew  calmer,  she  felt  grateful  to  him  for 
not  having  made  any  remark  nor  even  tried  to  comfort 
her ;  and  she  made  a  great  effort  to  conquer  herself, 
because  she  had  always  been  told  that  men  hate  to  see 
a  woman's  tears.  So  she  lifted  up  her  face  and  dried 
her  eyes  and  made  some  little  feminine  excuse  for  her- 
self. 

"  It  took  me  by  surprise — I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said. 

She  laid  the  little  sleeve  away  by  itself  and  lifted  the 
tray  bodily  from  its  resting-place.  The  lower  part  of 
the  box  was  almost  entirely  filled  with  letters  ;  and 
Jocelyn  knew,  almost  without  glancing  at  them,  that 
they  were  in  John  Daunay  's  hand.  His  love-letters, 
perhaps,  written  to  Betha  before  she  left  her  home,  and 
treasured  by  her  in  this  faintly  perfumed  box  among 
the  dainty  implements  of  her  woman's  work. 

"  Are  they  my  father's,  do  you  think  ?  "  Annabel 
said,  almost  in  a  whisper.  "  Ought  we  to  read  them  ?  " 

"You  may  read  them  ;  you  must/'  said  Jocelyn. 

"  And  here  is  a  little  book  with  writing  in  it — faint, 
delicate  writing  ;  it  must  be  hers.  I  think  it  is  a  sort 
of  diary — see,  it  was  written  quite  twenty-five  years 
ago." 

"  Twenty-five  years  ago  ?  " 


Betha's  Work-Box.  261 

"That  is  the  date  of  my  mother's  marriage,  is  it 
not  ?"  said  Annabel,  turning  a  little  pale. 

"Yes,  yes.  Open  the  book,  for  Heaven's  sake,  and 
see." 

She  looked  almost  surprised  at  his  impatience,  but 
began  at  once  to  read  the  first  page  and  to  turn  over 
the  yellow  leaves.  Some  paper  at  the  beginning  of  the 
book  had  evidently  been  torn  out,  and  the  diary,  such 
as  it  was,  began  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence. 

"  .  .  .  Never  so  happy  in  my  life.  I  hope  poor 
Jane  will  not  be  very  angry.  I  wanted  to  write  to  her, 
but  J.  would  not  let  me.  He  is  very  kind,  but  he  must 
have  his  own  way.  I  know  Jane  will  be  so  anxious  to 
hear  about  our  marriage,  and  I  asked  John  to  let  me 
tell  her  where  and  when  it  took  place " 

"  Look,"  said  Annabel,  holding  the  book  towards 
Jocelyn  as  she  read.  And  he  read  it  also  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  But  he  would  not  hear  of  it,  and  said  there  would 
be  time  enough  when  we  got  back  to  England.  It 
seemed  very  odd  to  be  married  at  what  they  call  the 
Embassy  instead  of  in  church,  but  John  says  it  is  quite 
right,  and  he  has  taken  every  care  that  the  ceremony 
was  properly  performed.  When  we  leave  Paris " 

"  Annabel,"  said  Jocelyn,  "  shall  I  go  over  to  Paris  ? 
It  seems  the  best  way  of  finding  out  the  truth  ?  " 

"  You  ?  But  it  is  too  much  for  you  to  do — you 
should  send — one  of  Mr.  Clissold's  clerks,"  said  Anna- 
bel, with  the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks,  although 
there  was  a  touch  of  almost  hysterical  laughter  in  her 
voice. 

"Won't  you  trust  me,  Annabel  ?" 

"  Oh,  do  you  think  it  is  all  right  ?" 


262  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  do.  This  is  the  missing  clue. 
They  were  married  abroad  ;  that  is  what  has  misled  us 
all  the  time." 

"  You  know  it's  not  for  the  sake  of  the  money  that 
I  care,"  said  Annabel,  with  an  irrepressible  sob. 

"  Of  course  I  know  that." 

"It  is  for  my  mother.  You  would  feel  just  as  I  do 
if  it  were  your  mother." 

"  Yes,  dear,  I  should.     I  am  very  glad,  Annabel." 

"  Oh,  you  can't  be,"  said  Annabel,  with  a  little  re- 
turn of  the  whimsical  spirit  which  so  often  possessed 
her.  "  It  must  be  a  great  blow  to  you." 

"Not  in  the  least.  I  would  far  rather  you  had  it 
than  I.  We  can  be  friends  now,  can  we  not  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  if  you  don't  mind  my  having  been  so 
disagreeable  in  the  past.  I  must  think  of  some  way  of 
making  up  to  you  for  it — 

"  There's  a  very  easy  way,"  said  Jocelyn. 

"  What  is  that  ?" 

"  Care  for  me  a  little,  Annabel,"  said  the  young  man, 
almost  in  a  whisper.  But  she  drew  back,  at  once, 
looking  a  little  grave. 

"I  must  know  people  very  well  before  I  care  for 
them.  But  I  am  very  grateful  to  you,  Cousin 
Jocelyn." 

"I  don't  want  gratitude." 

"  It  is  all  I  can  give  at  present/'  said  Annabel,  with 
a  subtle  smile;  "so  you  must  be  content.  And  now 
shall  I  go  upstairs  and  tell  Aunt  Jane  ?  " 

Jocelyn  consented  to  wait ;  but  before  long,  he  too  was 
summoned  to  Miss  Arnold's  room,  and  a  sort  of  family 
council  was  convened.  He  was  deputed  to  go  to  Dr. 
Lechmere  and  tell  him  what  had  been  found  ;  for, 


Betha's  Work-Box.  263 

after  all,  it  was  possible,  as  Jane  Arnold  wisely  said, 
that  there  was  not  so  much  real  information  in  Betha's 
hastily  jotted  notes  as  had  been  at  first  believed. 
They  did  not  absolutely  say,  for  instance,  whether  the 
marriage  had  been  performed  at  the  Embassy  in  Paris 
or  elsewhere.  But  it  seemed,  at  any  rate,  likely  that 
they  were  on  the  right  path  and  would  speedily  be  able 
to  demonstrate  to  all  objectors  (including  Mr.  Clissold) 
that  John  Daunay  and  Betha  Arnold  had  indeed  been 
man  and  wife. 


264  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTEE   XXVII. 

A   TEMPTEESS. 

So  Jocelyn  went  off  to  Paris  the  next  day,  having 
told  Edith  the  whole  story,  bnt  leaving  Lenore  under 
dire  apprehensions  of  what  would  happen  to  her  next, 
for  Madame  Juliette  was  waxing  furious  under  the 
many  delays  of  her  customer  to  pay  even  a  portion  of 
her  account,  and  Mrs.  Wycherly  simply  dared  not  go 
back  to  London  until  she  had  the  wherewithal  to 
stave  off  the  demands  of  her  creditor.  She  had  had, 
she  considered,  two  strings  to  her  bow  when  she  came 
north  :  there  was  Reynold  Harding,  who  was  wealthy 
enough  to  pay  her  debts  a  hundred  times  over  without 
any  inconvenience,  and  there  was  Jocelyn  Daunay, 
whom  she  had  felt  quite  certain  of  being  able  to  bring 
to  her  feet  again.  Bu  t  Reynold  had  given  her  to  under- 
stand that  he  was  rather  tired  of  paying  her  debts, 
and  Jocelyn  had  calmly  told  her  that  he  was  in  love 
with  some  one  else.  To  ask  either  of  them  for  money 
after  that  would  be  extremely  humiliating  ;  and  al- 
though she  did  not  mind  humiliation,  when  there  was 
anything  to  be  got  by  it,  she  desired,  of  course,  to  avoid 
it  if  there  were  other  ways  open  to  her. 

Under  the  circumstances  she  resolved  to  stay  at 
Daunay's  Tower  until  she  was  absolutely  turned  out, 
and  she  turned  greedy  eyes  upon  the  earnings  of  her 
brother.  She  did  not  know  much  about  doctors,  but 


A  Temptress.  265 

she  had  heard  it  said  that  Eugene  had  a  very  large 
practise,  and  she  did  not  consider  the  fact  that  the 
people  were  mostly  poor  and  paid  extremely  small  fees. 
She  heard  vaguely  that  Lord  This  and  Lady  That 
and  other  of  the  county  magnates  had  sent  for  Dr. 
Lechmere  on  an  emergency  and  had  praised  him  to 
the  skies  ;  and  she  supposed  that  they  paid  him  at 
the  rate  which  they  would  pay  to  a  London  doctor. 
She  thought  of  the  men  whom  she  knew  in  Harley 
Street  and  "Wimpole  Street  drawing  in  thousands  a 
year  and  faring  sumptuously  every  day.  If  Eugene 
chose  to  live  in  a  little  whitewashed  house  in  a  village 
street  it  was  probably  that  he  might  save  himself  ex- 
pense. No  doubt  he  was  putting  by  ;  surely  he  had 
money  at  his  command  with  which  to  help  a  sister  in 
the  hour  of  need.  Lenore  reckoned  him  as  a  third 
string  to  her  bow. 

She  imposed  upon  Edith  rather  skillfuly.  She 
knew  that  Edith  always  distrusted  her  a  little,  and 
therefore  she  was  on  her  guard.  The  two  women  were 
alone  together  at  Daunay's  Tower,  and  it  was  necessary 
to  say  something,  so  Lenore  let  it  trickle  out  with  ap- 
parent reluctance  that  she  had  lately  lost  a  great  deal 
of  money  and  was  in  debt  to  her  dressmaker.  "  Not 
much  you  know,  dear  Edith,  for  I  never  run  up  long 
bills  ;  but  it  distresses  me  so  much  that  I  feel  as  if  I 
could  not  bear  to  go  back  to  London  until  my  remit- 
tances come  in  from  papa  at  the  end  of  September. 
I  shall  be  able  to  pay  poor  Madame  Juliette  then,  and 
I  shirk  going  back  to  town  until  I  have  the  money  in 
hand.  Will  it  be  too  long  if  I  stay  here  until  papa's 
cheque  arrives  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.     "We  shall  be  delighted  to  keep  you 


266  Daunay's  Tower. 

with  us,"  said  Edith,  really  commiserating  her ;  for 
the  burden  of  debt  was  one  with  which  she  could 
sympathize,  as  she  had  seen  her  parents  bearing  the 
weight  of  it  all  through  the  early  years  of  her  life. 
"  Stay  as  long  as  we  stay,  if  you  like  ;  but,  you 
know,  that  if  John  Daunay's  marriage  is  proved  his 
daughter  will  take  everything  under  his  will,  and  we 
shall  just  have  to  go  back  to  our  little  flat  in  London, 
while  she  reigns  at  Daunay's  Tower." 

"Yes,  the  little  minx!  I  wish  I  could  strangle 
her,"  said  Lenore — but  to  herself  only,  for  she  knew 
that  such  sentiments  would  be  entirely  out  of  place  in 
dealing  with  Edith  Daunay.  She  uttered  a  little  moan 
of  sympathy  and  dismay.  "  What  a  pity  it  is  that 
there  is  a  daughter  ;  it  would  have  been  so  much  nicer 
if  poor  dear  Jocelyn  had  come  in  for  everything.  But 
don't  you  think  it  very  probable  that  no  record  of  the 
marriage  will  be  found  ?  " 

"  Then  if  there  is  not,"  said  Edith,  gravely,  ' '  I  don't 
think  that  Jocelyn's  conscience  would  allow  him  to 
keep  the  property  ;  he  would  therefore  hand  it  back 
entirely  to  Miss  Daunay,  or,  if  she  refused  to  take  it 
from  him  in  that  way,  he  might  agree  to  a  compromise." 

Lenore  threw  a  questioning  glance  at  her  ;  did  Edith 
know  nothing  of  her  brother's  infatuation  for  Annabel  ? 
If  she  did,  she  was  evidently  resolved  not  to  betray 
him. 

"  If  you  have  to  go  back  to  Londoii,"  said  Lenore, 
resignedly,  "  I  think  I  shall  take  a  room  at  the  Daunay 
Arms  for  a  week  or  two.  It  cannot  be  expensive,  and 
I  want  to  economize  ;  besides,  it  looks  deliciously  clean. 
Then  I  should  have  the  advantage  of  being  under  Dr. 
Lechmere  for  a  time,  for  really,  although  he  is  only  a 


A  Temptress.  267 

local  doctor,  I  have  never  found  anybody  who  under- 
stands my  constitution  so  well." 

"  Dr.  Lechmere  is  very  clever,  I  believe,"  said 
Edith,  with  a  touch  of  reserve  in  her  voice.  She  had 
never  been  able  quite  to  understand  the  fascination 
which  Eugene  Lechmere  exercised  over  her  brother. 
There  was  something  a  little  unsympathetic  in  her 
attitude  towards  him,  and  now  she  added  with  a 
sudden  change  of  tone,  "I  am  going  up  to  pay  my  re- 
spects to  Miss  Arnold  and  Miss  Daunay  at  the  Moor- 
side  Farm.  Jocelyn  asked  me  to  do  so  before  he  left. 
"Will  you  come  with  me,  or  can  you  amuse  yourself  ? 
It  is  rather  a  long  walk/' 

"Much  too  long  for  me,"  said  Lenore,  plaintively. 
"  How  strong  yon  must  be  to  go  such  a  distance,  and 
all  by  yourself  too  !  I  should  never  have  the  courage  ; 
besides,  I  am  expecting  the  doctor  this  afternoon.  He 
said  that  he  should  like  to  see  me  again,  and  perhaps 
to  examine  me,  as  he  does  not  think  my  heart  is  very 
strong.  I  shall  have  Abbott  with  me,  if  you  are  out." 

"Yes,  do  just  as  you  please,  dear/'  said  Edith,  who 
had  no  practical  interest  in  Lenore's  ailments,  and 
thought  it  a  good  thing  if  she  could  amuse  herself 
with  Dr.  Lechmere  or  anybody  else.  But  Mrs.  Wy- 
cherly  was  by  no  means  as  fragile  as  she  represented 
herself  to  be.  She  had  already  been  energetic  enough 
in  apprising  herself  of  Eugene  Lechmere's  plans  for  the 
day,  and  probable  movements,  and  as  soon  as  Edith 
was  well  out  of  sight  on  her  way  to  Moorside  Farm, 
Lenore  calmly  put  on  her  hat  and  cloak  and  went  out 
in  the  direction  of  High  Rigg,  and  speedily  found  her- 
self at  Dr.  Lechmere's  door. 

"  It  is  rather  convenient  that  you  are  a  doctor,"  she 


268  Daunay's  Tower. 

said,  when  Mrs.  Beccles  had  ushered  her  into  the  doc- 
tor's study,  and  he  had  given  her  the  conventional 
greeting  that  the  housekeeper's  presence  allowed.  It 
seemed  to  Lenore  that  Mrs.  Beccles  was  rather  long  in 
taking  her  departure.  The  old  woman  bustled  about 
the  room  for  a  minute  or  two  on  pretense  of  making 
up  the  fire,  until  the  doctor  had  to  give  her  a  word  of 
dismissal.  Visitors  of  Mrs.  Wycherly's  type  were  cer- 
tainly infrequent  at  Dr.  Lechmere's  house.  "  If  it 
were  not  supposed  that  I  came  to  you  for  a  consulta- 
tion, of  course  it  would  not  be  proper  for  me  to  come 
at  all ;  and  that  would  be  awkward,  when  we  have  so 
much  to  say  to  each  other." 

"  Have  we  much  to  say  to  each  other.  Dear  me,  I 
didn't  know,"  said  Eugene,  with  his  accustomed  dry- 
ness. 

"  Well,  I've  a  good  deal  to  say  to  you  at  any  rate," 
said  Lenore,  drawing  up  her  chair  to  the  fire  and 
settling  herself  comfortably.  "  How  cold  it  is  in  these 
regions  ;  I  am  nearly  driven  mad  with  neuralgia.  If  I 
had  not  my  own  reasons  for  staying  I  would  go  back  to 
London  to-morrow.  I  hate  these  chilly  places." 

"  I  thought  you  wished  me  to  recommend  you  to 
stay." 

"  Oh,  that  was  only  for  appearance'  sake.  One 
must  render  a  reason  for  the  things  one  does,  and  I 
wish  to  remain  at  the  Tower  until  Jocelvn  comes 
back." 

"  So  you 're  still  bent  on  subjugating  that  poor  young 
man  ! " 

"  Why  not  ?  He  would  be  much  happier  with  me 
than  with  Annabel  Daunay." 

The  angry  red  came  into  Dr.  Lechmere's  face,  but 


A  Temptress.  269 

he  answered  with  his  customary  lightness  of  tone, 
"  That  is,  I  suppose,  a  matter  of  opinion." 

"It  comes  to  this,"  said  Lenore,  unwinding  the  furs 
from  her  neck  and  looking  at  him  steadily,  "  that  I 
must  do  something  definite  for  myself  in  one  way  or 
another.  As  I  told  you  before,  I  have  a  very  small  in- 
come, and  I  am  head  over  ears  in  debt.  I  want  to 
marry  a  rich  man,  and  if  Jocelyn  Da u nay  is  rich  I  will 
marry  him,  in  spite  of  all  the  Annabels  in  the  world." 

"  You  seem  very  sure  about  it ;  but  what  if  Daunay 
turns  out  to  be  a  poor  man  and  Annabel  is  the  heiress  ?  " 

"That  would  complicate  matters  certainly."  She 
looked  into  the  fire  and  sat  for  a  moment  silent.  "  It 
would  be  so  easy  to  manage  the  whole  affair  if  you  would 
really  make  up  your  mind  to  stand  in  with  me,"  she 
said  at  last. 

"What  do  you  mean  to  ask  ?"  with  real  anxiety  in 
his  tone. 

"  You  don't  set  up  for  being  scrupulous,  do  you, 
Eugene  ?  " 

"  Oh,  dear  no,"  said  Lechmere  readily,  his  lips  tight- 
ening a  little.  "  A  man  in  my  position  has  no  right  to 
be  scrupulous." 

"  That's  what  I  thought.  What  good  can  it  do 
you  ?"  said  Lenore,  with  easy  cynicism.  "It  is  not 
as  though  you  had  had  a  very  reputable  career,  you 
know,  or  as  if  you  had  not  done  once — for  the  sake  of 
money — what  you  might  do  again." 

Eugene  looked  at  her  speechlessly  for  a  minute  or 
two.  "  So  yon  have  believed  the  worst  of  me  all  along," 
he  said,  in  a  smothered  voice. 

"  I  am  not  a  child,"  said  Lenore,  contemptuously. 
"  Although  you  got  off  at  the  time  with  a  verdict  of 


270  Daunay's  -Tower. 

manslaughter,  you  must  know  that  everybody  believed 
there  was  no  accident  in  the  matter.  You  owed  the 
man  money  which  you  could  not  pay — and,  as  it  hap- 
pened, chance  threw  him  into  your  hands  at  a  critical 
moment.  Of  course  your  counsel  was  very  clever  with 
the  plea  of  intoxication — that  you  didn't  know  what 
you  were  doing,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  ;  but  I  have 
heard  people  say  that  a  very  clever  surgeon  can  gener- 
ally do  his  work  as  well  when  he  is  drunk  as  when  he 
is  sober — if  he  chooses  to  do  it  at  all." 

If  she  had  looked  at  her  brother's  face  while  she  was 
speaking,  she  would  have  seen  a  curious  change  in  it. 
At  first  there  was  some  astonishment ;  then  bitter  anger 
and  disgust,  which  made  the  veins  swell  on  his  forehead 
and  gave  a  lurid  gleam  to  his  hazel  eyes  ;  then  the  look 
of  passion  was  succeeded  by  one  of  intense  self-repres- 
sion and  deliberate  endurance,  which  left  him  extremely 
pale.  He  had  been  leaning  with  his  elbow  on  the 
mantelpiece,  but  he  now  stood  erect,  with  his  hands 
thrust  into  his  pockets,  his  shoulders  slightly  thrown 
back,  every  muscle  tense  and  alert,  like  one  preparing 
to  receive  an  assault  or,  if  necessary,  to  attack  in  re- 
turn. 

But  at  the  end  of  Lenore's  remarks,  and  after  a  dead 
silence  of  a  moment  or  two,  the  tension  seemed  to  re- 
lax ;  he  dropped  down  into  the  nearest  chair,  squared 
his  elbows  on  its  wooden  arms  and  joined  the  tips  of 
his  fingers  thoughtfully  together,  after  the  approved  pro- 
fessional fashion  ;  then  he  said  very  quietly,  "  Well  ?" 

"  Surely  you  don't  need  me  to  put  it  into  words  ?  " 
said  Lenore.  "  You  are  a  doctor  ;  you  know  how  to 
manage  a  matter  of  this  kind  in  a  thousand  ways. 
Why  don't  you  do  it  and  set  Jocelyn  free  ?  " 


A  Temptress.  271 

He  scrutinized  her  as  if  she  were  an  animal  of  a  new 
species  which  he  had  never  seen  before. 

"  I  should  rather  like  to  hear  in  plain  words  what 
you  want  me  to  do/'  he  said,  suavely.  "  One  is  so  apt 
to  make  mistakes  in  a  matter  of  this  sort." 

"  You  are  not  likely  to  make  any  mistake,"  said  Mrs. 
"Wycherly.  "  I  dare  say  you  are  cleverer  than  you  were 
twenty  years  ago  ;  and  what  does  one  girl's  life  matter 
more  or  less  ?  " 

But  that  was  a  little  too  much  for  Eugene's  equa- 
nimity. He  started  from  his  seat  and  walked  across 
the  room  and  back  again. 

' '  Good  God  !  "  he  muttered,  looking  down  afc  his 
sister  with  an  expression  of  utter  loathing  and  almost 
indeed  of  dread.  "Is  it  possible  that  you — you,  a  wo- 
man— wish  me  to  murder  a  girl  of  eighteen  for  the  sake 
of  a  little  money  ?  Are  you  mad  or  only  wicked, 
Lenore  ?  " 

She  quailed  a  little  beneath  the  terrible  passion  in  his 
voice  ;  but  she  knew  how  to  make  a  retreat.  "  I  did 
not  say  anything  of  the  kind,"  she  answered  pettishly. 
"  Though,  if  I  did,  I  don't  know  that  it  would  be  so 
very  terrible.  I  have  often  heard  people  say  how  desir- 
able it  would  be  if  there  were  some  way  of  safely  re- 
moving persons  whose  lives  were  not  valuable  to  the 
community." 

"  And  you  think  Annabel  Daunay's  life  is  not  vain- 
ale  to  the  community  ? "  said  Eugene,  still  studying 
her  face.  His  excitement  had  died  down,  but  his  voice 
was  very  stern. 

"  Valuable  ?  It  is  a  distinct  injury  to  at  least  three 
persons,"  said  Lenore,  with  indignation.  "  It  injures 
Jocelyn,  because  she  will  probably  take  possession  of 


272  Daunay's  Tower. 

the  money  that  ought  to  be  his  ;  consequently,  it  in- 
jures me,  because  I  cannot  marry  Jocelyn  if  he  is  a 
poor  man ;  it  injures  you,  because  it  would  be  much 
more  to  your  advantage  that  Jocelyn  Daunay  should 
marry  your  sister  than  that  he  should  marry  Annabel." 

"I  don't  quite  see  that/'  said  the  doctor,  ironically. 
"  Your  calculations  are  a  little  wide  of  the  mark.  As 
I  have  known  Annabel  Daunay  all  her  life,  and  she 
happens  to  have  some  sort  of  affection  for  me — which 
you  have  not — it  would  probably  be  more  to  my  advan- 
tage that  she  should  be  mistress  of  Daunay's  Tower  than 
you." 

"Perhaps  you  want  to  marry  her  yourself,"  said 
Lenore,  looking  at  him  critically. 

"  God  forbid  ! "  he  said,  turning  away  his  face  ;  but 
the  significance  of  that  ejaculation  was  entirely  lost 
upon  Lenore. 

"Then,"  she  said,  almost  in  a  whisper,  "why  don't 
you  come  over  to  my  side  ?  I  would  make  it  well  worth 
your  while,  Eugene.  But  I  don't  mean  anything 
dreadful — such  as  you  yourself  suggested.  Now,  mind, 
I  never  said  the  word,  but  why  couldn't  you  do  some- 
thing or  other  with  your  drugs  ?  I  remember  reading 
something  of  the  sort  in  a  novel  only  the  other  day, 
where  a  doctor  destroyed  a  girl's  good  looks  or  made  an 
idiot  of  her,  or  something  of  that  kind — you  could  do 
that  quite  easily,  I  should  think.  You  doctors  know 
so  many  wonderful  things." 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Lechmere,  quietly.  "  I  could  do 
that  quite  easily,  no  doubt." 

She  scarcely  detected  the  note  of  satire  in  his  tone. 

"Nobody  would  ever  suspect  yon,"  she  said  eagerly. 
"  You  are  in  and  out  of  that  house  every  day  of  the 


A  Temptress.  273 

week,  and  I  hear  that  both  aunt  and  niece  are  your 
patients.  No  young  man  would  continue  to  go  after  a 
girl  whose  skin  was  disfigured,  for  instance,  or  who  had 
lost  the  use  of  her  senses ;  at  any  rate,  he  would  not 
want  to  marry  her." 

"  Do  you  know  that  you  are  talking  like  a  fiend  ?  " 
said  the  doctor  ;  "with  the  face  of  an  angel  too." 

"  That's  a  very  pretty  compliment,"  she  laughed. 
"  Why,  Eugene,  you  must  know  that  in  southern  coun- 
tries it  is  a  very  usual  thing  for  a  woman  to  get  rid  of  a 
rival  in  that  way.  The  lower  classes  throw  vitriol  at 
each  other,  do  they  not  ?  1  should  not  like  that,  but 
there  are  other  ways  of  bringing  about  the  same  result." 

"  But  even  if  you  succeeded  in  your  object,"  said  Dr. 
Lechmere,  in  a  biting  tone,  "  even  supposing  you  had 
destroyed  Annabel's  beauty  and  intellect  and  all  that 
makes  life  worth  living,  how  would  you  be  the  better 
for  that  ?  except,  of  course,  as  a  matter  of  personal  sat- 
isfaction. Don't  you  see  that  even  as  a  lunatic,  if  she 
were  one,  she  would  continue  to  be  the  owner  of  Dau- 
nay's  Tower  and  the  property  ?  " 

"Oh,  well,  yes — for  a  time/'  said  Lenore,  in  her 
softest  and  silkiest  voice.  "Of  course,  when  she  got 
to  that  stage,  it  would  be  a  sheer  act  of  mercy  to  ter- 
minate her  existence." 

"  Yes/'  said  the  doctor,  cynically,  "  no  doubt  it 
would." 

"  "Well,"  she  said,  looking  up  at  him  in  a  friendly 
manner,  "  what  do  yon  say  ?  Will  you  agree?  Oh, 
you  need  not  committ  yourself,  you  know.  There  is 
never  any  need  for  one  to  say  anything  incriminating  ; 
but  really  it  is  an  idea  worth  considering  ;  and  if  you 
would  but  think  it  over  and  just  tell  me  in  a  day  or 
18 


274  Daunay's  Tower. 

two  that  you  were  on  my  side,  I  should  understand  and 
would  simply  watch  for  results.  There  will  be  no  need 
for  either  of  us  to  mention  it  again." 

"  And  what  would  be  my  share  for  this  precious 
business  ?  "  ask  the  doctor,  in  a  voice  of  steel. 

Lenore  hesitated.  "  Of  course  we  could  never  tell 
Jocelyn,"  she  murmured.  "  But  I  shall  have  plenty  of 
money  at  my  command,  and  you  could  call  upon  me 
for  it  whenever  you  chose." 

"  Do  you  think  the  bribe  is  big  enough  ? "  said 
Eugene,  looking  at  her  with  an  odd,  sour  smile.  "  On 
the  whole,  Lenore,  I  think  you  are  the  worst  woman  I 
ever  knew,  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal." 

"What  does  that  matter,  if  yon  agree  to  my  terms  ?" 
she  said,  standing  up  to  go. 

"  Not  the  least.  But  I  have  not  agreed  to  them  yet. 
Remember  you  said  I  had  better  take  a  day  or  two  to 
think  them  over,"  and,  still  calmly  smiling,  Dr.  Lech- 
mere  put  her  cloak  round  her  graceful  shoulders  and 
helped  her  to  wind  her  fur  boa  round  her  neck.  He 
was  not  without  a  curious  thought  of  the  ease  with 
which  he  could  have  strangled  her  while  he  held  the 
long  fur  in  his  hands. 


Two  Conspirators.  275 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

TWO  CONSPIRATORS. 

LENORE  remained  in  an  unsatisfied  state  for  several 
days.  Dr.  Lechmere  had  not  come  near  her,  although 
she  twice  wrote  to  him  to  demand  his  attendance.  He 
sent  back  word  that  he  was  quite  too  busy  to  see  her, 
and  recommended  her  sending  for  a  specialist  to  Car- 
lisle. Mrs.  Wycherly  was  astonished  and  a  little  of- 
fended when  she  received  this  communication.  Did  it 
mean  that  Eugene  was  refusing  to  lend  himself  to  her 
project  ?  But  surely  he  would  let  her  know  in  some 
unmistakable  manner  when  he  had  made  up  his  mind. 

The  real  fact  was  that  Eugene  was  suffering  from 
what  might  be  described  as  complete  moral  nausea.  He 
could  not  bear  to  go  near  the  woman  who  had  suggest- 
ed such  an  unspeakable  horror  to  his  mind.  He  was 
by  nature  a  sensitive  man,  although  he  had  enclosed 
himself  in  a  husk  of  outward  roughness  and  apparent 
ill-humor,  and  he  felt  this  revelation  of  his  sister's  dis- 
position with  every  fiber  of  his  being.  She  was,  at 
heart,  what  the  world  credited  him  with  having  been — 
one  who  would  not  refuse  even  the  task  of  murder  for 
the  sake  of  gain.  The  accusation  had  always  seemed  to 
him  perfectly  monstrous.  That  he  might  kill  a  man 
through  accident,  through  carelessness,  even  through 
passion  was  possible,  but  never  from  a  deliberate  pur- 
pose of  greed. 


276  Daunay's  Tower. 

He  was  obliged  to  wait  until  he  could  to  some  extent 
conquer  the  natural  repulsion  which  he  felt  towards 
her ;  for,  as  he  had  seen  almost  from  the  beginning,  it 
was  no  use  to  expend  his  energies  in  verbal  reprobation 
of  her  schemes.  He  knew  her  well  enough  for  that. 
She  would  simply  stare  and  laugh  at  him  if  he  suggest- 
ed that  her  proposition  had  been  wicked  and  unwoman- 
ly. She  would  have  thrown  the  history  of  his  own 
crime,  as  she  would  have  called  it,  in  his  teeth ;  and  it 
was  one  of  the  worst  results  of  that  episode  in  his  his- 
tory, he  reflected,  that  it  seemed  to  deprive  him  of  any 
moral  standpoint  when  speaking  to  his  kind.  "  Who 
are  you/'  he  seemed  to  hear  a  voice  asking  him,  "  that 
you  should  lecture  other  people  on  the  enormity  of  their 
offense,  when  you  yourself  very  nearly  escaped  hang- 
ing ?  and  are  you  to  preach  kindliness,  gentleness,  hon- 
esty, and  sobriety  when  you  yourself  outraged  all  the 
rules  of  righteousness  in  your  early  youth  ?  True,  it 
is  twenty  years  ago,  and  you  have  changed  your  manner 
of  living  since  then,  but  you  cannot  get  away  from  the 
knowledge  that  you  once  did  these  things  ;  and  there 
are  stains  which  can  never  be  wiped  out."  And,  hear- 
ing this  voice  in  his  own  heart,  Eugene  Lechmere  had 
always  found  it  difficult  to  reprove  or  exhort  any  other 
man. 

It  would  certainly  be  of  no  use  to  exhort  or  reprove 
his  sister.  She  would  laugh  him  to  scorn  and,  worst 
of  all,  would  not  be  led  to  abandon  her  evil  schemes 
against  Annabel.  It  might  be  better  subtly  to  thwart 
her  designs  than  to  set  himself  in  open  opposition  to 
her.  It  would  be  a  difficult  task  to  bear  with  her  in 
the  interviews  to  which  he  must  lend  himself.  He  did 
not  even  feel  sure  that  he  could  carry  the  thing  through, 


Two  Conspirators.  277 

so  strong  was  the  feeling  of  indignation  and  disgust 
whenever  he  recalled  the  promptings  of  her  speech. 
But  it  might  be  the  best  way  of  protecting  Annabel, 
and  for  her  sake  Eugene  thought  that  he  might,  for 
once,  dissemble. 

Dissimulation  was  not  easy  to  him.  He  could  be 
reticent  enough,  but  he  scorned  pretenses  of  any  kind  ; 
still  there  was  not  much  that  he  could  now  do  for  An- 
nabel— for  he  counted  his  long  friendship  for  her  and 
the  innumerable  cares  that  he  had  showered  upon  her 
as  simply  nothing;  and  to  be  of  use  to  Annabel  was  a 
thing  to  live  for,  and  to  be  glad  of  life. 

It  was  during  this  period  of  waiting  that  Lenore  had 
a  curious  little  conversation  with  Reynold  .Harding. 
Reynold  had,  of  course,  soon  tired  of  his  sojourn  in  the 
village  inn,  and,  when  Jocelyn  went  to  Paris,  Mr.  Hard- 
ing thought  it  as  well  to  take  up  his  abode  at  the  house 
of  a  bachelor  friend  in  the  neighborhood.  There  was 
some  rather  good  shooting  to  be  had,  and  the  weather 
was  pleasant.  It  was  no  use  going  back  to  London  at 
that  time,  and,  as  he  had  no  special  engagements,  he 
thought  he  might  as  well  stay  where  he  was,  especially 
as  he  wanted  to  keep  an  eye  upon  Lenore,  in  whose  plans 
he  was  interested.  He  hoped  she  would  marry  Daunay, 
or  if  not,  some  one  else.  She  was  so  clever  that  he  was 
always  afraid  lest  she  might  end  in  wishing  to  marry 
him.  Reynold  had  been  Mrs.  Wycherly's  lover  at  one 
time  in  his  life,  but  he  had  no  desire  to  marry  her  now, 
and  felt  that  it  would  be  a  relief  to  him  when  she  was 
settled  and  provided  for. 

He  came  to  Dannay's  Tower  one  day,  therefore,  in 
order  to  see  how  things  were  going  on.  He  found 
Lenore  alone  in  the  drawing-room — a  great  bare,  white 


278  Daunay's  Tower. 

and  gold  place,  quite  unsuitable  to  the  character  of  the 
building.  It  was  very  desolate-looking,  in  spite  of  all 
ifs  grandeur.  Lenore  had  made  a  kind  of  encampment 
for  herself  near  a  roaring  fire  ;  she  had  an  armchair,  a 
footstool,  a  screen,  and  she  had  wrapped  a  fur  cloak 
around  her  fragile  form. 

Reynold  sat  down  on  a  gilt  chair,  which  creaked  be- 
neath his  weight.  "  You  look  horridly  cold.  I  can- 
not think  why  you  stay  in  a  house  like  this." 

"  Oh,  we  shall  have  it  done  up  some  day,"  said 
Lenore,  with  a  smile  of  perfect  confidence. 

"  We  !  Have  you  settled  it  with  Jocelyn  Daunay, 
then  ?  " 

"  "Well,  very  nearly,"  said  Lenore,  sweetly.  "  There 
are  one  or  two  details  to  arrange,  but  they  will  soon  be 
got  over." 

"  What  about  the  claimant  to  the  estate  ? "  said 
Reynold. 

"  Oh,  I  think  she  is  an  impostor,"  said  Lenore,  with 
the  greatest  calm.  "  I  don't  think  we  need  trouble  our- 
selves at  all  about  her." 

"  That's  a  good  thing.  I  say,  Lenore,  do  you  know 
who  they  have  got  as  a  doctor  here  in  the  village  ? " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  But  nobody  dreams  that  he  has 
any  connection  with  me,  so  please  don't  say  anything 
about  it." 

"  Doesn't  Daunay  know  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not.  I  wouldn't  have  him  know  for  the 
world — not  yet,  at  any  rate  ;  for  when  we  are  married, 
of  course  " — with  a  little  sigh — "  of  course  I  shall  have 
no  secrets  from  my  husband." 

"  Oh,  won't  you  ?  "  said  Re}rnold,  with  a  sudden  roar 
of  laughter.  Then  he  became  grave  again,  and  slowly 


Two  Conspirators.  279 

shook  his  head.  "  If  I  were  you  I  would  be  careful 
how  you  try  to  deceive  Daunay.  He  is  one  of  those 
stupidly  honest  fellows  who  think  a  woman  a  regular 
fiend  if  she  has  anything  to  conceal." 

"What  have  I  to  conceal?"  said  Lenore,  opening 
her  lovely  languorous  eyes  at  him.  "  I  assure  you  that 
my  husband  will  have  nothing  to  complain  of  me  in 
that  respect." 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  said  Reynold  ;  "  though  it  strikes 
me  that  he  will  be  rather  astonished  if  you  tell  him 
everything  that  I  know  about  yon,  Lenore.  And  as  for 
Eugene,  you'll  have  your  work  out  out  for  you  there. 
He  won't  much  like  to  be  brother-in-law  to  a  celebrated 
criminal." 

"  As  it  happens,  he  is  extremely  friendly  with  Eu- 
gene," said  Mrs.  Wycherly.  "  I  don't  know  how  it  is, 
but  Eugene  always  had  that  sort  of  attraction  for  some 
people.  I  never  could  see  it  myself.  I  think  he  has 
grown  singularly  disagreeable." 

"  I  never  was  so  flabergasted  in  my  life,"  said  Rey- 
nold, shaking  himself  like  a  great  dog,  "as  I  said  just 
now  when  I  walked  down  the  street  and  met  him  in 
that  smart  little  turn-out  of  his,  driving  a  rattling  good 
horse  too,  at  a  break-neck  pace,  just  as  he  used  to  do  in 
Somersetshire.  Do  you  remember,  your  father  always 
said  he  would  break  his  neck  some  day  or  '  other  ;  he 
was  such  a  reckless  fellow  in  those  days." 

"  He  has  turned  quite  respectable  now,"  said  Lenore, 
indifferently.  It  might  be  to  her  interest  by  and  by,  to 
represent  Dr.  Lechmere  as  a  reformed  character.  "  Who 
is  it  that  says  you  attain  respectability  when  you  drive 
a  gig  ?  Well,  Eugene  drives  a  gig  and  is  happy." 

Reynold  laughed  again.      "  Poor  devil  ! "  he  said, 


280  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  he  deserves  a  little  good  luck  now  to  make  up  for  that 
fiasco  in  his  youth.  I  simply  stood  in  the  road  and 
stared  at  him.  I  think  I  roared  out  his  name  ;  I  am 
not  sure.  He  glared  at  me  in  that  furious  way  of  his 
which  I  so  well  remember.  He  did  not  make  the  faint- 
est sign  of  recognition  ;  he  might  have  been  cut  out  of 
stone  for  any  response  he  made.  I  watched  him  up  the 
hill  for  some  time  and,  of  course,  asked  who  he  was. 
I  wonder  I  did  not  come  across  him  before,  during  those 
three  or  four  days  that  I  spent  at  the  inn." 

"He  goes  such  long  rounds, "  said  Lenore.  "And  I 
fancy  he  was  away  for  a  day  or  two." 

"  I  saw  him  stop,"  said  Harding,  reflectively,  "  at 
that  farm  on  the  side  of  the  hill.  Have  you  ever  been 
there  ?  Have  yon  noticed  what  an  uncommonly  pretty 
girl  there  is  at  that  house  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Leuore,  faintly.  She  wished  that  men 
would  not  admire  Annabel  Daunay  quite  so  much. 

"Never  saw  any  one  prettier,"  remarked  her  cousin. 
"  Complexion  marvelous,  and  such  an  air  with  her  ; 
such  grace  and  a  kind  of  distinction  which  one  does  not 
usually  see  in  a  farmer's  daughter  ;  speaks  well  too." 

"  Did  you  speak  to  her  then  ?  "  in  astonishment. 

"  Of  course  I  did.  Told  her  I  had  lost  my  way, 
wanted  a  drink  of  water  or  something  of  that  kind ;  in 
fact,  I  was  so  overpowered  by  fatigue  that  she  was 
obliged  to  ask  me  into  the  kitchen,  where  she  was  per- 
forming culinary  operations  of  sorts.  She  gave  me 
bread  and  cheese  and  a  mug  of  beer." 

"  You  must  have  felt  like  the  traditional  policeman 
with  the  conventional  cook,"  said  Lenore. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  felt  like  ;  I  only  know  that  I 
never  saw  a  prettier  pair  of  eyes  in  my  life.  I  couldn't 


Two  Conspirators.  281 

get  her  name  out  of  her,  although  I  all  but  asked.  She 
lives  with  an  old  aunt ;  the  aunt's  name  is  Arnold." 

"  Well,  you  will  be  gratified  to  hear,"  said  Lenore, 
with  deliberate  emphasis,  "  that  is  the  young  person 
who  claims  to  be  John  Dan  nay's  daughter  and  wants 
to  turn  Jocelyn  out  of  the  estate." 

"  By  Jove,  you  don't  say  so  !  "  exclaimed  Harding. 
"  That's  uncommonly  interesting.  Why,  she  may  be 
an  heiress,  a  lady  in  her  own  right.  I  shall  look  her  up 
again." 

"  But  what  is  the  use  ?  "  said  Mrs.  "Wycherly,  a  little 
startled  by  this  avowal. 

"  The  use  ?  What  does  one  go  to  see  a  pretty  girl 
for  ?  Gad,  I'll  have  a  kiss  from  her  before  all's  said 
and  done." 

"Don't  be  so  coarse,  Reynold.  You  will  get  your- 
self into  trouble  if  you  are  not  careful.  Supposing  she 
should  turn  out  to  be  the  heiress " 

"  I  thought  you  said  she  was  not  !  " 

"  I  believe  her  to  be  an  impostor,  certainly  ;  but  she 
is  the  sort  of  girl  that  would  impose  on  any  one." 

"  She  won't  impose  upon  me,"  said  Harding,  with 
his  great  laugh.  "  I  shall  get  a  rise  out  of  her  before 
I've  done.  If  she  turns  out  to  be  the  heiress,  why 
shouldn't  I  marry  her  ?  " 

It  was  a  new  idea  .to  Lenore,  and  she  was  not  sure 
whether  she  liked  it  or  not.  She  wondered  how  far 
matters  had  advanced  between  Jocelyn  and  Annabel, 
and  whether  Annabel  was  the  sort  of  girl  who  would  be 
easily  won.  If  Reynold  married  her  she  would  be  out 
of  Jocelyn's  reach — that  would  be  one  good  thing. 
On  the  other  hand,  Annabel  would  be  almost  certain 
to  dislike  her,  and  Reynold,  influenced  by  his  wife, 


282  Daunay's  Tower. 

would  cease  to  be  generous.  Still,  if  she — Lenore — • 
married  Jocelyn,  she  could  afford  to  dispense  with 
Reynold's  assistance.  And  also  she  need  not  trouble 
Eugene  any  further  to  put  Annabel  "out  of  the  run- 
ning "  ;  that  would  be  a  good  thing,  because  Eugene  had 
a  trick  of  saying  nasty  things.  On  the  whole,  she 
thought  that  she  would  throw  her  influence  into  the 
scale  of  Reynold's  courtship. 

"  That  would  be  quite  delightful, "she  said,  after  a 
pause.  ' '  Why,  Reynold,  what  a  very  good  idea  !  A 
beautiful  girl  like  that — and  a  woman  of  property, 
too.  You  would  indeed  be  fortunate  !  But  what  a 
pity  you  are  not  a  little  younger  ! " 

"Think  so?"  he  said,  pulling  at  his  mustache, 
and  looking  down  at  his  own  mighty  limbs.  "  I  don't 
know  ;  I  fancy  a  young  girl  rather  likes  a  rniddle-aged 
man.  It  flatters  her  to  think  that  he  cares  for  her." 

"Well,  you  had  better  be  careful.  You  have  a  rival 
in  the  field." 

"  Eh  ?    Who's  that  ?  " 

She  hesitated.  "  Jocelyn  has  been  flirting  with  her 
a  little,"  she  said  at  length.  "  I  would  make  the  run- 
ning, as  I  suppose  you  call  it,  while  he  is  away." 

"  Thanks  for  the  tip,"  said  Reynold,  nonchalantly. 
"  It's  worth  something,  is  that,  Lenore.  "  You're  a 
nice  little  woman  when  you  like  ;  it's  a  pity  that  you 
don't  meet  with  some  rich  fellow  who  would  make  you 
happy  and  comfortable.  It'll  soon  be  too  late." 

Lenore's  lip  quivered.  There  was  enough  truth  in 
what  Reynold  said  to  make  his  words  singularly  gall- 
ing. 

"  You  are  not  kind,  Reynold,  although  I  am  doing 
my  best  to  help  you,"  she  said,  pressing  her  handker- 


Two  Conspirators.  283 

chief  to  her  eyes.  "  If  you  only  knew  how  worried  I 
am,  how  hard  pressed,  you  would  not  reproach  me  for 
my  failure." 

"Poor  little  woman  !"  said  the  big  man,  pityingly. 
"I  didn't  mean  to  vex  you,  Lenore.  I  will  show  you 
that  I'm  your  friend  still,  see  if  I  don't." 

He  took  his  leave  immediately  afterwards,  almost  in 
silence,  and  Mrs.  Wycherly  knew  better  than  to  press 
him  to  explain  himself  ;  but  she  was  by  no  means  sur- 
prised when  the  next  post  brought  her  a  big  crested 
envelope  which  contained  simply  a  few  words  written 
on  a  piece  of  paper  and — a  cheque  ! 

"For  a  good  little  cousin,  from  the  old  brute." 
That  was  the  inscription  on  the  paper.  And  the 
cheque,  payable  on  demand  to  Lenore  Wycherly,  was  for 
two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  It  was  Reynold's  way  to 
throw  his  money  about  like  this,  and  Lenore  almost 
forgot  to  be  grateful  to  him  in  considering  what  a  lavish 
fool  he  must  be.  Notwithstanding  her  penchant  for 
Jocelyn,  she  would  have  married  Eeynold  Harding  on 
the  morrow,  if  only  he  would  have  been  so  kind  as  to 
ask  her.  But,  as  he  sometimes  said  to  himself  with  a 
laugh,  "  Anything  but  that !  " 

She  did  not  see  him  again  for  some  days,  but  she 
noted  with  satisfaction  that  Edith  Daunay  had  begun 
to  ask  questions  about  Mr.  Harding  with  what  seemed 
to  be  a  perturbed  air.  He  was  Lenore's  cousin,  she 
knew  ;  but  was  she  well  acquainted  with  him  ?  Was 
he  a  man  of  good  character  ?  He  seemed  to  be  stay- 
ing at  the  shooting-box  of  young  Mr.  Robson,  who  was 
noted  for  his  "fastness"  and  wild  behavior  generally. 
Did  Mr.  Harding  approve  of  the  revelries  which  were 
supposed  to  go  on  at  this  house  ? 


284  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  you,  my  dear  Edith,"  said  Le- 
nore,  with  some  tartness.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  you 
have  been  listening  to  gossip,  if  I  may  be  so  bold  as  to 
say  so." 

And  then  Edith  collapsed.  She  had  received  a  visit 
from  Mrs.  Crisp,  the  wife  of  a  clergyman  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, who  professed  to  be  very  fond  of  the  people 
at  Moorside  Farm  and  anxious  on  Annabel's  account. 
Mr.  Harding  had  taken  to  visiting  the  farm,  and  evi- 
dently saw  a  good  deal  of  the  girl.  He  was  sending 
fruit  and  flowers  to  Miss  Arnold  every  day  ;  Mrs.  Crisp 
was  not  sure  that  he  did  not  send  even  more  valuable 
things  to  Annabel.  It  was  open  and  undisguised  court- 
ship ;  and  Mrs.  Crisp  did  not  think  it  could  come  to 
any  good.  For  why  should  a  rich,  middle-aged  man 
like  Mr.  Eeynold  Harding  pay  such  attentions  to  a  girl 
like  Annabel,  about  whose  origin  there  was  always  a 
little  shade  of  mystery  ?  He  could  not  mean  well  by 
her;  and  it  would  be  a  dreadful  thing  for  poor  Miss 
Arnold  if  the  girl  ran  away,  exactly  as  Betha  had  done 
many  years  ago  ! 

' '  I  should  say  it  was  all  spiteful  gossip/'  said  Edith 
with  a  touch  of  anxiety  in  her  voice,  "if  it  were  not 
that  when  I  called  at  the  farm  yesterday  I  saw  the  most 
beautiful  hothouse  flowers  on  the  table,  and  some  mag- 
nificent grapes  in  Miss  Arnold's  room.  Of  course  she 
cannot  afford  them  !  But  who  sends  them,  if  he  does 
not  ?  I  don't  think  it  is  quite  right.  And  Annabel 
colored  in  the  most  guilty  way  when  I  alluded  to  them." 

"I  should  think  it  is  Reynold,  certainly,"  said 
Lenore.  "He  has  such  a  lordly  way  of  doing  things. 
You  have  no  idea  of  the  presents  he  has  made  me  at  dif- 
ferent times  ! " 


Two  Conspirators.  285 

Which  Edith  certainly  had  not. 

"  You  are  a  relation  of  his,"  said  Edith,  somewhat 
repressively ;  "  poor  Annabel  is  not.  And  she  is  in 
such  a  peculiar  position  that  she  ought  to  be  extremely 
careful.  If  it  were  not  that  Mr.  Harding  is  so  rich, 
one  would  almost  imagine  that  he  was  thinking  of  her 
fortune ;  for  I  suppose  there  is  little  use  in  doubting 
that  she  is  the  rightful  owner  of  the  property." 

"Why  does  not  Jocelyn  marry  her?"  said  Lenore, 
with  an  odd  little  curve  of  the  lips.  "  Then  everybody 
would  be  satisfied/' 

"Unfortunately  people  do  not  fall  in  love  to  order/' 
Edith  replied.  "  Besides,  I  am  sure  he  would  not  care 
to  marry  a  rich  woman  unless  he  had  a  better  position 
of  his  own." 

Lenore  laughed  in  her  sleeve.  Edith  was  a  little 
prim  and  particular — there  was  no  denying  it — but  it 
would  not  do  to  laugh  at  her  openly.  She  only  said 
that  when  she  saw  Eeynold  Harding  she  would  ask  him 
to  be  more  on  his  guard. 

What  could  she  do  next  ?  Why  did  Eugene  not 
come  ?  Surely  he  could  not  have  begun  the  work  that 
she  had  suggested  to  him  without  saying  a  word  to 
her  ?  It  would  be  awkward  if  he  had  already  done 
anything  to  defeat  Reynold's  plans. 

She  thought  that  she  would  go  up  to  the  Moorside 
Farm  and  make  acquaintance  with  Annabel  for  herself. 
She  would  like  to  see  what  sort  of  stuff  the  girl  was 
made  of  underneath  that  dainty  exterior.  She  could 
easily  make  her  acquaintance  with  Jocelyn  Daunay  an 
excuse  ;  for  it  was  necessary  for  the  success  of  her  en- 
terprise to  go  alone. 

And  one  must  do  something  !     Life  was  very  dull 


286  Daunay's  Tower. 

now,  with  Jocelyn  in  Paris,  Eeynold  making  love  to 
Annabel,  Eugene  silent  as  the  dead.  She  must  try  to 
impart  some  zest  to  her  existence  by  making  for  her- 
self an  incursion  in  the  unknown. 


Mrs.  Wycherly's  Expedition.         287 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MBS.  WYCHERLY'S  EXPEDITION. 
* 

THE  Daunays  were  under  the  impression  that  Mrs. 
Wycherly  could  not  walk  at  all,  and  they  would  have 
been  much  surprised  if  they  had  known  of  how  much 
exertion  she  was  capable.  She  did  a  great  deal  more 
walking  in  London  than  anybody  supposed,  because 
she  was  afraid  of  getting  fat  ;  and  it  was  only  when 
she  stayed  in  her  friends'  houses  that  she  posed  as  the 
languid,  fragile  creature  who  was  afraid  to  tread  the 
country  roads.  She  resolved,  therefore,  to  walk  up  to 
the  Moorside  Farm  on  the  first  opportunity ;  but  she 
had  to  wait  for  a  fine  day,  and  also  for  an  afternoon 
when  Edith  was  elsewhere  engaged.  She  had  not  long 
to  wait.  Miss  Daunay  had  been  asked  to  a  picnic  (for 
the  neighboring  county  families  had  not  been  long  in 
making  her  acquaintance,  and  were  bent  on  showing 
themselves  friendly),  and  Lenore  had  insisted  most 
strenuously  upon  her  accepting  the  invitation. 

"I  shall  be  quite,  quite  happy  at  home, "she  said. 
"  I  have  my  books  and  my  work,  and  in  the  afternoon 
I  will  go  for  a  little  gentle  stroll.  You  may  be  quite 
easy  in  your  mind  concerning  me." 

And  Edith  went  to  her  party,  rightly  deciding  that 
she  was  not  bound  to  make  Mrs.  Wycherly  her  first 
consideration. 

Leuore  scanned  the  day.     The  sky  was  covered  with 


288  Daunay's  Tower.  J 

clouds,  but  the  air  was  very  still.  The  hills  looked 
lividly  purple  in  the  distance.  "  I  wonder  if  it  is  going 
to  pour  with  rain,"  she  said  to  herself.  If  she  had  a 
dislike  in  the  world,  it  was  getting  wet. 

She  summoned  her  maid  and  spoke  deliberately. 
"  Abbott,"  she  said,  "  I  am  going  to  take  a  little  stroll 
up  the  road  ;  you  know  the  road  I  mean  :  it  leads 
across  the  fell,  as  they  call  it — past  the  Moorside  Farm. 
If  I  am  not  home  in  an  hour,  go  down  to  the  Daunay 
Arms  and  tell  them  to  follow  me  with  the  pony-car- 
riage, for  it  will  mean  that  I  am  tired  or  have  been  de- 
tained or  something.  Do  you  understand  ?  " 

"Yes,  ma'am,  I  understand,"  said  Abbott,  knowing 
that  she  was  not  meant  to  understand  anything  at 
all. 

"  If  Miss  Daunay  comes  back  before  I  have  re- 
turned," said  Lenore,  "  you  can  tell  her  what  I  have 
said  to  you,  and  that  I  am  probably  waiting  for  the 
pony-carriage  to  pick  me  up.  There  is  a  green  silk 
dress  in  my  wardrobe  that  I  don't  require  any  longer  ; 
would  it  be  of  any  use  to  you,  Abbott  ?" 

"  Thank  you,  ma'am,  it  certainly  would,"  said 
Abbott,  demurely. 

"  Take  it  then.  I  don't  want  any  one  coming  to 
meet  me,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  you  know." 

"  I  understand,  ma'am,"  said  Abbott. 

"  I  suppose  she's  meeting  somebody  on  the  sly,"  said 
Abbott,  who  had  no  great  opinion  of  Mrs.  "Wycherly's 
virtues.  "  She's  up  to  all  sorts  of  little  games,  site  is. 
I  wish  she'd  marry  somebody  with  money.  There'll  be 
a  smash-up  before  long,  I  know  that,  and  we  shan't 
get  paid  ;  but,  law,  who  would  be  fool  enough  to 
marry  her  ? "  And  Abbott  shrugged  her  shoulders 


Mrs.  Wycherly's  Expedition.         289 

with  an  expression  of  a  contempt  which  would  greatly 
have  astonished  Mrs.  Wycherly  if  she  had  ever  realized 
that  it  could  exist. 

She  walked  slowly  until  she  was  out  of  the  village, 
then  breasted  the  rising  ground  with  vigor.  Her 
elegant  languor  disappeared  when  she  had  a  motive  for 
exertion.  She  met  scarcely  any  one  upon  the  lonely 
road,  but  it  certainly  seemed  long  to  her,  and  she  was 
glad  when  the  farmhouse  came  into  sight.  "  It  was 
perhaps  foolish  of  me  not  to  drive  all  the  way,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "  But  then  my  visit  to  the  farm 
would  be  gossiped  about,  and  I  want  it  to  seem  almost 
accidental.  I  wonder  if  I  shall  find  Reynold  there  ?  " 

But  the  farmhouse,  set  in  its  garden  and  courtyard, 
looked,  even  to  her  eyes,  singularly  desolate.  She  did 
not  know  that  the  farming  work  was  carried  on  from 
a  different  center,  and  that  the  Moorside  Farm  was 
simply  the  old  name  of  the  house.  She  looked  round 
for  signs  of  life,  for  cattle,  for  poultry,  for  servants, 
and  was  a  little  amazed  to  find  that  none  of  these 
things  existed.  Even  the  dairy  had  now  passed  out  of 
Jane  Arnold's  hands,  and  she  did  not  trouble  herself 
about  the  fowls,  which  had  once  been  her  greatest 
glory. 

"Is  Miss  Arnold  at  home  ?  "  Lenore  asked  boldly, 
when  she  found  an  open  door.  It  Avas  the  kitchen-door 
that  in  her  ignorance  she  had  attacked  ;  and  the  rosy 
maid-servant  who  answered  her  summons  looked  at  her 
with  evident  surprise. 

"  Miss  Arnold  is  ill,  ma'am.  And  Miss  Annabel  is 
out." 

"  Oh,  dear  !  And  I  am  so  very  tired.  Do  you  think 
Miss  Arnold  is  too  ill  to  see  me  ?  I  am  a  relation  of 
19 


2QQ  Daunay's  Tower. 

some  one  she  knows  ;  and  I  am  staying  at  Daunay's 
Tower." 

The  maid's  face  lightened  with  intelligence.  She 
knew  a  good  deal  about  Daunay's  Tower,  and  about 
Mrs.  Wycherly  herself.  It  was  a  revelation  to  her  to 
contemplate  Mrs.  Wycherly's  attire  :  the  great  black 
hat  with  drooping  feathers,  the  sable  boa,  the  delicate 
lace,  the  knot  of  autumn  violets  at  the  throat. 

"  Will  you  step  in,  ma'am  ?  I  am  sure  Miss  Arnold 
would  not  like  you  to  go  without  a  rest/' 

It  was  just  what  she  wanted.  She  was  shown  into 
the  horrid  little  sitting-room,  where  she  sat  and  shud- 
dered at  the  glaring  colors,  the  crude  attempts  at  deco- 
ration, the  absence  in  everything  which  she  looked  upon 
of  art  or  beauty.  The  only  thing  that  redeemed  the 
room  from  utter  ugliness  was  the  presence  of  the  love- 
liest flowers  :  roses,  with  subtle  perfume  and  all  shades 
of  color,  lilies  of  varying  hues,  everything  in  the  way 
of  a  blossom  that  could  give  pleasure  or  delight  at  that 
season  of  the  year.  "  They  must  have  cost  a  fortune," 
said  Lenore,  burying  her  face  in  a  bowl  of  maiden-hair 
fern  and  odonto-glossum.  "  Oh,  Reynold,  what  an 
extravagant  boy  you  are  !  " 

Presently  Keziah  brought  her  a  cup  of  fragrant  tea, 
and  a  request — not  altogether  unexpected — would  the 
lady  mind  stepping  up  to  Miss  Arnold's  room  ? 

It  was  the  very  thing  that  Mrs.  Wycherly  desired, 
and  she  accepted  the  invitation  with  alacrity.  But  she 
half  repented  of  her  ready  consent  when  she  entered 
Jane  Arnold's  room — the  room  with  its  air  of  prepara- 
tion for  sickness,  even  for  death,  she  thought — with 
the  white  hangings  and  the  mountain  of  pillows  against 
which  the  invalid  was  propped,  and  the  scent,  again, 


Mrs.  Wycherly's  Expedition.         291 

of  hot-house  flowers  and  eau-de-Cologne,  which  has  for 
some  people  almost  a  repellant  significance.  Mrs. 
Wycherly  remembered  her  husband's  death-chamber, 
and  shuddered.  She  did  not  like  the  vicinity  of  death. 

1  ( You  asked  for  me,  I  think  ?  "  Jane  Arnold  said, 
turning  her  sunken  eyes  and  waxen  face  towards  her 
visitor. 

A  person  of  more  spiritual  perception  than  Mrs. 
Wycherly  would  have  noticed  the  benevolence  of  Jane 
Arnold's  eyes,  the  serenity  and  sweetness  of  her  brow, 
Her  face  had  grown  tenfold  more  refined  through 
suffering  ;  and  therefore  tenfold  more  interesting.  Dr. 
Lechmere,  in  speaking  to  Annabel  lately,  had  pleased 
her  by  terming  it  a  beautiful  face.  But  it  was  a  beauty 
which  Mrs.  Wycherly  could  not  understand. 

"I — I — beg  your  pardon,"  she  faltered.  "I  did  not 
know  that  you  were  so  ill.  I  have  heard  of  you  so  often 
from  friends,  that  I  ventured  to  come  and  make  your 
acquaintance." 

"  From  friends  ?  "  said  Jane  Arnold,  inquiringly. 
She  took  things  literally,  and  wondered  what  friends 
she  and  this  frivolous-looking  woman  could  have  in 
common. 

"  Miss  Daunay  and  Mr.  Daunay,"  Lenore  answered 
nervously,  "  and  Mr.  Harding,  of  course.  Mr.  Hard- 
ing is  my  cousin." 

"  Mr.  Harding  has  been  very  kind  to  us,"  said  the 
wan  woman  from  her  pillows.  And  Lenore  hastened 
to  respond. 

"  Yes,  he  has  sent  you  these  lovely  flowers,  has  he 
not  ?" 

Miss  Arnold  made  an  unexpected  reply.  "  No,  these 
flowers  do  not  come  from  Mr.  Harding.  We  should 


292  Daunay's  Tower. 

not  accept  them  from  a  stranger.  They  have  been  sent 
in  by  a  friend." 

"  What  friend  ?  "  queried  Lenore,  in  her  own  mind. 
But  she  could  not  put  her  question  into  words  ;  she 
could  only  beat  about  the  bush.  "  They  are  wonder- 
fully fresh,  considering  that  they  must  have  come 
from  such  a  distance. " 

"I  believe  they  came  from  Carlisle,"  said  Jane 
Arnold,  indifferently.  "  There  are  beautiful  nursery- 
gardens  at  Carlisle." 

"  Indeed  ?  They  looked  to  me  as  if  they  came  from 
abroad." 

"  You  mean  from  Paris  ?  "  said  the  invalid,  with 
what  seemed  to  Mrs.  Wycherly  wonderful  intuition. 
"  Oh  no,  they  do  not  come  from  Paris.  You  are 
thinking  of  Mr.  Daunay,  110  doubt.  I  do  not  think  it 
would  ever  occur  to  him  to  send  us  flowers.  Young 
men  are  not  so  thoughtful  in  these  matters.  They 
came  from  much  nearer  home." 

Lenore  was  irritated.  She  saw  what  Jane  Arnold 
meant — or  so  she  thought. 

"I  hope  you  do  not  attach  too  much  importance  to 
these  attentions,"  she  said.  "  To  a  rich  man  it  is  very 
easy  to  give  a  florist  a  general  order  for  bouquets.  I 
know,  because  I  used  to  have  so  many  myself." 

"Ah,  I  dare  say.  But  we  attach  importance  to 
these  flowers  just  because  it  is  not  a  rich  man  who 
sends  them,"  said  Miss  Arnold,  unflinchingly.  "  Very 
far  from  rich  ;  indeed,  I  have  no  doubt  that  he  pinches 
himself  for  every  blossom  in  this  room.  And  that  is 
why  we  value  them,  Mrs.  Wycherly,  because  they  rep- 
resent a  friendship  of  many  years'  standing,  such  as 
perhaps  you  would  not  appreciate." 


Mrs.  Wycherly's  Expedition.         293 

There  was  a  little  silence  ;  then  Lenore  rose  to  her 
feet.  "  I  see  that  I  have  been  mistaken,"  she  said. 
"  I  thought  my  cousin  was  responsible  for  these  gifts. 
If  he  is  not,  it  is,  of  course,  no  concern  of  mine.  I  am 
sorry  that  I  have  intruded." 

"  I  don't  feel  it  an  intrusion,"  said  the  sick  woman. 
"  I  think  you  meant  it  kindly,  did  you  not  ?  You 
were  afraid  that  Annabel  was  being  misled  by  some- 
body who  did  not  care  for  her  ?  She  is  safe  enough ; 
I  wish  with  all  my  heart  you  were  as  safe." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  I  am  quite  safe,"  said  Lenore, 
shrinking  back  ;  "  I  am  in  no  danger." 

"Dying  folk  see  clearer  than  most,"  was  Jane 
Arnold's  strange  reply.  "  I  think  you  are  in  danger, 
though  you  know  it  not.  Did  you  never  hear  that  the 
greatest  danger  of  all  was  the  danger  of  deadly  sin,  lest 
through  that  you  should  lose  your  soul  ?" 

She  had  held  out  her  hand,  into  which  Lenore  had 
mechanically  placed  her  own  ;  but  now  Lenore  tore  it 
away  with  violence,  and  cowered  almost  as  though  she 
had  been  struck. 

"I  do  not  know  why  you  should  talk  to  me  like 
this,"  she  cried.  "I  am  quite  a  good  woman,  a  re- 
spectable woman  ;  I  have  never  done  anybody  any 
harm." 

"  Try  not  to  do  any  one  any  harm,  then,"  said  Jane 
Arnold,  with  one  of  her  strange,  penetrating  glances. 
"  The  Lord  gives  poWer  to  the  dying  ;  they  can  read 
the  souls  of  those  who  are  left  behind.  It  is  borne  in 
on  me  that  you  would  do  deadly  harm  to  some  other 
person  if  the  power  were  given  you.  God  grant  that 
you  never  have  the  power,  or  that  your  mind  be 
changed  ! " 


294  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  You  are  a  mad  woman/'  said  Mrs.  Wycherly,  sud- 
denly recovering  herself.  "  You  do  not  know  what  you 
say/'  And,  not  daring  to  look  again  at  the  pale  ac- 
cusing face  upon  the  pillows,  she  escaped  from  the 
sick-room,  and,  after  a  moment's  pause  for  breath  at 
the  head  of  the  staircase,  found  her  way  downstairs. 

"  Yonr  mistress  does  not  seem  well,"  she  remarked 
to  the  waiting  Keziah. 

"No,  ma'am  ;  the  doctor  says  she's  very  ill  indeed." 

"  Ought  she  not  to  have  some  one  with  her  ?  Where 
is  her  niece  ?  " 

"  Miss  Annabel's  gone  over  to  St.  Andrew's-on-the- 
Hill,  ma'am.  She  always  goes  there  one  day  towards 
the  end  of  September,  and  takes  flowers  to  put  on  her 
mother's  grave.  It  was  her  mother's  birthday,  as  I've 
heard." 

"  Oh,  and  where  is  St.  Andrew's-on-the-Hill  ?" 

Keziah  led  the  way  to  the  front  door.  "  I'll  show 
you,  ma'am.  You  can  see  it  from  here  quite  well. 
It's  reet  away  up  theer — with  a  square  tower  and  a 
bell." 

She  pointed  to  a  gray  building  of  ecclesiastical  char- 
acter situated  on  a  height  at  some  little  distance. 

"  Is  it  far  away  ?"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly. 

"Not  so  far  as  it  looks.  A  matter  of  two  mile  or 
thereabouts.  You've  nobbut  to  follow  the  road,"  said 
Keziah,  bluntly. 

"  Shall  I  follow  the  road  ?  "  Lenore  asked  herself. 
"  What  barbarous  people  !  and  what  an  extraordinary 
undertaking  !  but  I  should  like  to  speak  to  the  girl, 
and  no  doubt  I  shall  meet  her  coming  back." 

She  toiled  rather  slowly  in  the  direction  that  Keziah 
had  indicated,  but  she  met  absolutely  no  one  on  the 


Mrs.  Wycherly's  Expedition.         295 

way.  It  seemed  a  long  time  to  her  before  she  turned 
the  last  corner  of  the  winding  road,  and  saw  the  low 
gray  tower,  the  wind-swept  churchyard,  of  St.  An- 
drew's-on-the-Hill.  The  church  had  long  been  almost 
deserted  ;  few  services  were  said  within  its  walls,  and 
burials  never  took  place  within  its  precincts ;  it  had  a 
desolate  and  dreary 'look. 

"  What  a  funereal  kind  of  expedition  I  am  on  ! " 
said  Lenore  to  herself,  as  she  approached  the  church- 
yard gate.  "  A  dying  woman,  a  churchyard,  funeral 
wreaths  !  What  very  depressing  subjects  !  Dear  me, 
whose  cart  is  that  outside  the  gate  ?  Not  Eugene's, 
surely  ! " 

But  it  was  Eugene's.  She  could  not  be  mistaken  in 
the  scarlet  wheels  and  smart-looking  harness,  or  in  the 
fine  brown  horse  which  fidgeted  continually  to  be  off. 
Where,  then,  was  Eugene  ? 

The  answer  came  quickly,  and  gave  Mrs.  Wycherly 
something  of  a  shock.  He  was  in  the  churchyard  with 
Annabel ;  and  they  had  come  together  to  lay  flowers 
upon  her  mother's  grave.  Here,  indeed,  was  a  matter 
for  reflection.  Did  it  not  seem  as  if  Eugene  took  more 
than  a  friendly  interest  in  the  girl  whom  Lenore  had 
begged  him  to  sweep  out  of  existence  ?  She  was 
naturally  suspicious,  and  she  wondered  whether  she 
had  not  been  a  fool  to  confide  in  him  so  utterly.  Had 
he  told  Annabel  ?  Had  he  told  that  ghastly  woman, 
who  had  warned  her  to  beware  of  sin  ?  Her  heart  was 
faint  within  her  at  the  very  thought. 

But  no,  she  was  his  sister ;  he  would  never  betray 
her  to  that  extent.  Still,  she  would  one  day  tax  him 
with  having  deceived  her,  with  never  having  let  her 
know  that  he  was  on  friendly  terms  with  Annabel. 


296  Daunay's  Tower. 

She  could  see  them  from  the  gate  ;  they  stood  side  by 
side,  looking  down  at  a  grave  which  was  loosely  strewn 
with  flowers.  But  she  did  not  want  them  to  see  her. 
They  might  turn  round  at  any  moment ;  and  then — 
what  should  she  do  ? 


Mrs.  Wycherly's  Expedition.         297 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

ST.    ANDREW'S-ON-THE-HILL. 

A  LITTLE  side  path  led  from  the  gate  to  the  west 
entrance  of  the  church.  Mrs.  Wycherly  glanced  at  it, 
and  decided  on  taking  refuge  in  the  porch  or  perhaps  in 
the  church  itself.  She  skimmed  lightly  across  the  turf 
beside  the  pathway,  and  was  glad  to  find  that  they  did  not 
look  round.  The  porch  was  gained  quite  easily,  and,  to 
her  delight,  she  found  that  the  old  oak  door  into  the 
church  was  ajar.  She  passed  in  and  looked  about  her. 
There  was  little  sign  of  care  and  reverence  about  the 
place.  The  architecture  was  good,  and  the  chancel, 
though  small,  was  really  fine,  but  the  pews  were  broken 
down  and  worm-eaten,  the  red  cushions  and  curtains 
were  discolored  and  devoured  by  moths.  There  was  a 
whirring  sound  overhead  now  and  then,  which  convinced 
Lenore  that  a  colony  of  either  owls  or  bats  inhabited 
the  roof,  and  that,  although  it  was  still  daylight  out- 
of-doors,  in  the  shadows  of  the  old  building  they  were 
awake  and  stirring.  She  had  a  horror  of  bats,  and  in- 
voluntarily put  her  hands  up  to  her  head  as  if  to  pro- 
tect herself.  She  dared  not  leave  the  church,  however, 
until  she  was  sure  that  Annabel  and  Eugene  were 
gone. 

On  the  north  side  of  the  chancel  she  found  a  musty 
little  vestry,  with  a  small  window,  through  which  she 
could  see  the  two  figures  standing  by  Betha  Daunay's 
grave.  She  discovered  also  that  the  vestry  door  was 
not  locked,  which  gave  her  a  feeling  of  relief,  for  she 


298  Daunay's  Tower. 

had  now  two  ways  of  evading  her  brother  should  he 
turn  his  steps  towards  the  church.  She  certainly  did 
not  want  him  to  find  her  there.  He  would  think  that 
she  was  spying  out  his  movements,  whereas  it  was  only 
Annabel  whom  she  had  wished  to  find. 

As  she  watched  the  two,  it  struck  her  that  Dr. 
Lechmere's  attitude  was  curiously  protective — almost 
tender.  Annabel  stood  almost  motionless,  looking 
quietly  at  the  grave  ;  but  the  doctor  looked  at  her, 
with  that  expressive  bend  of  the  whole  figure  towards 
her  which  always  betrays  the  inclination  of  the  heart. 
People  who  love  each  other  never  sit  perfectly  erect 
when  they  are  side  by  side.  The  shoulder  of  each  in- 
clines towards  the  other,  with  perfect  unconsciousness 
on  their  part.  Lenore  had  never  heard  this  statement 
in  words,  but  she  recognized  the  fact  as  soon  as  she 
saw  it.  "  Why,  he  stands  as  if  he  loved  her  ! "  she 
said  to  herself,  with  a  vivid  realization  of  all  that  his 
love  for  Annabel  Daunay  might  mean. 

But  it  was  impossible.  Who  was  this  raw  girl  of 
eighteen  that  she  could  win  the  hearts  of  three  men, 
one  after  the  other,  of  utterly  different  types  ?  Eugene 
was  the  cleverest  of  the  three,  as  Lenore  was  aware  ; 
but  he  had  lived  so  long  in  seclusion  that  he  had  per- 
haps forgotten  what  beautiful  women  were  like.  Rey- 
nold Harding — he  had  seen  the  world,  and  knew  what 
to  admire  ;  though,  after  all,  Lenore  rated  his  passion 
at  its  true  value.  It  would  blaze  fiercely,  and  burn  it- 
self out  in  time  ;  of  that  she  was  very  sure.  It  was 
Jocelyn's  love  which  gave  her  most  food  for  vexation  ; 
for  Jocelyn  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  leave 
her,  Lenore,  for  a  little  country  girl.  Only  in  his 
case,  there  was  the  money  question  to  be  considered  ; 


St.  Andrew's-On-the-Hill.  299 

and  Annabel  might  turn  out  the  greatest  heiress  of  the 
country-side. 

Yes,  it  was  easy  to  find  a  good  reason  why  each  of 
these  men  should  be  drawn  by  the  cords  of  Annabel's 
young  beauty,  like  captives  in  her  train  ;  but  it  was 
none  the  less  disastrous  for  Mrs.  Wycherly.  It  was 
with  a  deadly  hatred  that  she  hated  Annabel  at  that 
moment.  She  would  have  given  the  world  to  do  her 
some  bodily  harm  with  her  own  hand.  And,  if  it  were 
true  that  Eugene  had  fallen  in  love  with  her,  had  she 
not  foolishly  deprived  herself  of  all  power  of  injury  by 
asking  Eugene  to  help  her  ?  Oh,  what  a  fool  she  had 
been  !  For  Eugene  would  suspect  her  now,  if  anything 
untoward  happened  to  Annabel. 

But  perhaps  she  was  mistaken.  The  girl  was 
eighteen,  and  Eugene  was  forty-five — old  enough  to 
be  her  father.  Perhaps  he  had  only  a  paternal  affec- 
tion for  her  ;  perhaps  it  was  only  the  sense  of  guardian- 
ship that  made  him  assume  that  curiously  tell-tale 
attitude,  that  gave  the  expression  of  tender  gravity — 
which  even  at  this  distance  Lenore  could  distinguish 
— to  the  sharply-drawn  lineaments  of  his  face.  Were 
they  going  to  stand  silent  and  motionless  for  ever  ? 
Xo,  Annabel  was  speaking,  and  he  listened  with  a 
grave  yet  pleasant  smile  ;  then  with  a  look  towards 
the  sky,  as  if  he  had  made  some  reference  to  the  weather, 
he  took  her  hand  in  his  own,  and  led  her  gently  away. 
Lenore  saw  that  they  walked  hand  in  hand  to  the  gate, 
and  of  course  did  not  know  that  this  was  an  old  familiar 
custom  which  had  begun  when  Annabel  was  a  tiny 
child,  and  had  been  brought,  at  Jane  Arnold's  wish,  to 
see  her  mother's  grave.  Then  she  had  held  her  aunt's 
hand  on  one  side,  and  the  doctor's  on  the  other  ;  but 


3oo  Daunay's  Tower. 

of  late  years  she  and  Eugene  had  come  alone.  But  he 
always  took  her  hand  very  quietly  at  the  close  of  her 
visit,  and  led  her  back  to  the  churchyard  gate.  It  was 
the  one  way  in  which  he  could  show  some  sympathy  for 
the  girl's  loneliness,  and  it  meant  nothing  more. 

But  Mrs.  Wycherly  did  not  know  this,  and  raged  in- 
wardly. She  saw  them  mount  to  their  places  in  the 
high-wheeled  light  cart  and  drive  away — Eugene  driv- 
ing much  more  cautiously  than  when  he  was  alone. 
Lenore  resolved  to  let  them  get  well  on  the  way  before 
she  left  the  church. 

What  was  that  ?  A  splash  on  the  stones,  another 
and  yet  another  ;  thick  and  fast  the  raindrops  began  to 
fall.  The  sky  had  been  dark  all  the  afternoon,  but 
she  had  hoped  to  get  back  to  the  Tower  before  a  storm 
should  break  ;  and  behold,  she  was  miles  away  from 
the  village,  alone,  in  this  ruinous  old  building,  and 
with  neither  waterproof,  cloak,  or  umbrella.  She 
thought  of  the  pony-carriage  which  had  been  bidden  to 
follow  her,  but  she  was  not  quite  sure  that  the  driver 
would  think  of  going  further  than  the  farm  ;  he  might 
not  even  come  so  far. 

Well,  at  any  rate,  she  was  under  cover,  and  perhaps 
the  rain  would  not  last  very  long.  She  must  wait  for 
a  time,  and  see.  Was  there  anything  in  the  vestry  or 
the  church  with  which  she  could  interest  or  amuse  her- 
self for  half  an  hour  or  an  hour  ? 

She  tried  the  crazy  old  harmonium,  but  could  not 
bear  the  discords  that  she  made.  She  wandered  into 
the  belfry,  where  a  long  dangling  rope  hung  from  the 
bell  in  the  tower.  She  felt  very  much  inclined  to  pull 
it,  but  was  a  little  afraid  of  rousing  the  neighborhood. 
Farm-laborers,  shepherds,  cottagers  might  come  from 


St.  Andrew's-On-the-Hill.  301 

far  and  near  if  they  heard  the  sound,  doubtless  long 
silent,  of  St.  Andrew's  bell. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  vestry  cupboard  but  a 
moldy  biscuit  and  a  torn  surplice  that  had  probably 
been  forgotten.  But  there  was  a  great  oak  chest,  at 
which  Lenore  looked  with  admiration,  for  it  had  been 
finely  carved,  and  if  rescued  from  dust  and  decay  might 
still  form  an  ornamental  article  of  furniture.  She 
wondered  whether  she  would  be  allowed  to  buy  it  for 
a  trifle,  if  she  made  an  offer  in  the  proper  quarter. 
Then  she  tried  the  lid  ;  it  was  not  locked,  and  she 
turned  it  up  against  the  wall.  It  was  empty  save  for 
two  quaint  old  volumes  in  brown  calf,  which  bore  in 
faded  gilt  lettering  the  words,  Parish  Register :  St. 
A  ndrew's-on-the-Hill. 

"  They  are  rather  dusty  and  dirty,"  said  Mrs. 
Wycherly,  contemplating  them  with  some  disgust. 
"  But  I  wonder  if  they  contain  anything  interesting — 
births,  marriages,  deaths  of  the  parish.  I  wonder  how 
large  the  parish  is,  or  whether  there  is  any  parish  at 
all.  Let  me  see — this  is  the  place  where  that  girl's 
mother  lies  buried.  Has  any  one  looked  at  the  register 
to  see  what  entry  was  made  ?  " 

It  was  a  new  thought.  She  stood  looking  down  at 
the  books  with  anew  interest.  She  did  not  very  much 
want  to  touch  them ;  they  looked  dusty  indeed,  and 
she  was  wearing  rather  nice  French  gloves.  But  finally 
she  took  the  old  surplice  ddwn  and  dusted  the  cover  of 
the  topmost  book,  and  then  lifted  it  up  with  the  sur- 
plice folded  round  it  so  as  to  save  her  gloves.  It  was 
heavy,  and  she  was  glad  to  lay  it  on  the  wooden  table, 
where  she  could  more  conveniently  examine  its  con- 
tents. 


302  Daunay's  Tower. 

How  it  rained  !  She  took  a  glance  at  the  outside 
world  before  she  opened  the  register.  The  rain  was 
coming  down  in  long,  slanting  sheets,  and  the  road 
that  she  had  come  by  was  all  but  invisible.  If  the 
pony-carriage  had  been  sent  to  meet  her,  it  was  cer- 
tainly not  yet  in  sight.  There  was  not  any  living  being 
within  sight  or  reach.  She  went  back  to  her  books 
with  a  feeling  of  guilty  relief.  It  was  no  harm,  she 
told  herself  ;  still,  it  would  ]ook  odd  if  anybody  found 
her  examining  the  parish  registers. 

"  She  died  when  the  girl  was  born,  eighteen  years 
ago.  Yes,  this  register  covers  that  period.  How 
frightfully  careless  of  people  to  leave  the  parish  records 
open  to  the  public  in  this  way,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly, 
with  virtuous  surprise.  "  If  they  hadn't  I  should  not 
be  able  to  examine  them — there  is  that  to  be  said. 
Come,  where  is  this  year  ?  I  suppose  every  death  is 
entered,  although  the  church  is  in  such  a  disgraceful 
state.  I  don't  know  what  month  it  was.  I  should 
think  it  would  be  about  this  time  of  the  year  ;  or  why 
should  Miss  Annabel  bring  floral  offerings  ?  I  will 
look  at  September  and  October.  Ah  !  here  it  is." 

Her  eye  was  caught  by  the  name  she  had  been  seek- 
ing. She  looked  at  the  record  with  a  smile  upon  her 
lips — a  smile  that  was  speedily  succeeded  by  an  expres- 
sion of  the  greatest  astonishment.  Evidently  she  had 
found  something  that  she  did  not  expect  to  find. 

"  Can  I  believe  my  eyes  ? "  she  said.  "  I  am  not 
dreaming,  am  I  ?  Why,  here  is  the  conclusion  of  the 
whole  case  in  a  nutshell.  How  idiotic  they  have  all 
been,  not  to  examine  the  register  before  !  I  should  dis- 
miss old  Clissold  for  incompetency,  if  I  were  Jocelyn. 
Why,  there  need  not  have  been  any  doubt  at  all  !  He 


St.  Andrew's-On-the-Hill.  303 

need  not  have  gone  to  Paris.  We  have  the  whole  plot 
laid  bare,  as  clear  as  daylight. " 

She  searched  in  her  pocket  for  the  little  ivory  tablets 
and  silver  pencil  which  she  carried  about  with  her, 
and  carefully  copied  from  the  register  the  entry  that 
she  had  found.  Then  she  closed  the  book  and  looked 
out  at  the  rain  with  a  smile. 

"  So  this  is  their  little  game,"  she  said.  "  They 
don't  seem  very  clever  at  it,  I  must  say.  I  suppose 
Eugene  knows.  If  I  had  been  in  his  place  I  should 
have  burnt  these  books  before  anybody  came  to  examine 
them.  I  wonder  what  his  interest  is  in  the  affair.  Is 
the  girl  his  daughter  by  any  chance,  or  is  the  saintly 
Jane  Arnold  her  mamma  ?  A  nice  little  mystery,  and 
a  beautiful  little  plot ;  but  I  have  got  the  whip-hand 
of  you  now,  Miss  Arnold.  I  wonder  what  Joceyln  will 
say  ! " 

She  replaced  the  book  in  the  chest,  shut  down  the 
lid  and  stood  meditatively  by  the  table  for  a  little 
while. 

"  I  wish  I  could  be  sure  whether  Eugene  was  on  her 
side  or  on  mine,"  she  said.  "  It  would  be  such  a  help, 
if  only  I  knew.  I  am  not  quite  sure  what  I  had  bet- 
ter do  next.  Oh,  thank  goodness,  the  rain  is  leaving 
off  and  there  is  a  gleam  of  sunshine  through  the  clouds. 
The  roads  will  be  in  a  fearful  state,  but  I  had  better 
get  back  as  soon  as  I  can,  or  Edith  Daunay  will  raise 
the  neighborhood." 

She  went  out  into  the  porch,  and  watched  the  gleam- 
ing landscape  with  amused,  abstracted  eyes.  "  What 
an  extraordinary  thing  that  I  should  have  come  here 
to-day,"  she  said,  almost  piously.  "  Really,  it  makes 
one  believe  in  a  Providence  that  shapes  our  ends,  as 


304  Daunay's  Tower. 

Shakespeare  says — and  there,  by  good  luck,  is  my 
pony-carriage  !  Fortune  is  on  my  side  to-day." 

The  driver  was  drenched  and  sulky ;  the  patient 
pony  was  much  depressed,  but  Lenore  cared  for  noth- 
ing but  the  possibility  of  getting  back  dry-shod.  She 
seated  herself  cheerfully  in  the  rather  ramshackle 
vehicle,  covered  herself  up  with  a  rug  which  the  driver 
produced  from  under  the  cushion,  and  finally  arrived 
at  Daunay's  Tower  in  better  spirits  than  she  had  been 
for  many  a  long  day. 

She  wrote  to  Mr.  Clissold  that  very  night,  enclosing 
a  copy  of  the  entry,  and  suggesting  that  he  should 
send  some  one  to  verify  it  as  soon  as  possible.  She 
marked  the  letter  "Private,"  and  begged  that  her 
name  should  not  be  mentioned  to  Mr.  Daunay  in  con- 
nection with  the  incident,  as  she  had  made  the  dis- 
covery of  this  record  purely  by  chance  and  did  not  wish 
to  seem  to  interfere.  In  this  way  she  thought  she 
should  guard  herself  against  any  offense  or  vexation 
on  Jocelyn's  part.  Then  she  sent  a  little  note  to  Eu- 
gene, asking  him  to  come  to  the  Tower  at  once. 

This  time  he  came.  There  had  been  a  new  tone  in 
her  letter,  short  though  it  was  ;  a  touch  of  exultation 
which  had  startled  him  a  little.  What  had  Lenore  got 
to  be  exultant  about  ? 

He  was  shown  up  into  her  room  that  evening  after 
dinner.  She  said  she  had  taken  a  chill  and  must  see 
the  doctor  at  once  if  he  came.  So  that  he  found  her 
quite  prepared  for  him,  in  the  most  bewitching  of  tea- 
gowns. 

She  saw  at  once  that  he  was  not  in  the  most  amiable 
of  moods.  He  came  in  slouching,  as  she  called  it, 
with  a  slight  forward  stoop  of  the  shoulders  which 


St.  Andrew's-On-the-Hill.  305 

always  meant  either  depression  or  irritability.  She  re- 
membered his  old  ways  well  enough  to  know  that.  Then 
his  eyebrows  were  knitted  over  eyes  which  were  de- 
cidedly angry,  and  his  chestnut  mustache  had  somehow 
attained  that  marvelous  twist  which  made  his  enemies 
declare  that  he  reminded  them  of  an  infuriated  cat. 
It  was  the  upward  and  outward  twist  of  that  big  mus- 
tache of  his  which  brought  upon  him  this  imputation, 
which  was  certainly  not  a  very  flattering  one.  But 
there  were  few  people  who  showed  ill-humor  more 
unblushingly  when  he  chose  than  Dr.  Eugene  Lech- 
mere.  It  was,  perhaps,  his  way  of  being  equal  with 
the  world. 

"So  you  have  come,"  she  said,  with  the  prettiest 
smile  in  the  world.  "  Xo,  of  course  I  am  not  ill ;  but 
I  wanted  to  see  you  all  the  same.  For  one  thing,  you 
have  given  me  no  answer  as  yet  about  the  proposal  I 
made  to  you.  For  another,  I  wish  to  tell  you  that  I 
have  discovered  your  secret,  and  wish  you  joy  of  your 
mock  Annabel.  I  suppose  you  know  that  the  real  one 
lies  buried  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Andrew's-on-the- 

Hill  ?" 
20 


306  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTEK  XXXI. 

THE    ENTBY   IN"   THE    BOOK. 

"  I  HAVE  not  the  slightest  notion  what  you  mean," 
said  Dr.  Lechmere.  "  What  do  you  know  about  St. 
Andrew's-on-the-Hill  ?  " 

"  I  was  there  this  afternoon.'' 

"  I  know  where  else  you  were,"  he  said,  with  a  sud- 
den blaze  of  anger.  "  You  were  up  at  the  Moorside 
Farm,  exciting  and  irritating  one  of  my  patients.  I 
found  her  very  ill  when  I  visited  her  later  in  the  after- 
noon. You  should  not  go  to  see  invalids  unless  you 
have  something  pleasant  to  say." 

"  It  was  she  that  said  unpleasant  things,"  said 
Lenore,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "  She  told  me  of 
my  sins  and  warned  me  to  repent.  I  call  her  a  most 
objectionable  person.  I  wanted  to  warn  her  that  Eey- 
nold  Harding  was  rather  a  wolf  in  sheep's  clothing, 
and  that  she  had  better  not  take  presents  from 
him " 

"  Presents  from  Eeynold  Harding  !  Who  supposed 
that  she  ever  did  anything  of  the  kind  ?  " 

"  Popular  report  has  it  so.  Mrs.  Crisp  has  been 
conferring  with  Edith  Daunay  on  the  subject.  You 
know  Reynold  is  very  much  smitten.  Surely  those 
flowers  testify  to  the  fact." 

For  a  minute  Eugene  looked  as  though  he  were  going 
to  treat  his  sister  to  one  of  those  furious  outbursts  of 
denunciation  by  which  he  had  made  his  name  famous 


The  Entry  In  the  Book.  307 

all  about  High  Rigg.  If  a  man  had  beaten  his  wife  iii 
a  drunken  fit,  or  a  boy  had  been  found  torturing  a 
dumb  animal,  it  was  well  known  that  you  had  only  "to 
set  the  doctor  on,"  and  the  offender  would  speedily  be 
reduced  to  limp  and  trembling  repentance.  Or  if  he 
were  hardened  and  still  held  out,  Dr.  Lechmere  was 
quite  willing  and  able  to  exchange  moral  suasion  for 
physical,  and  could  "  argue  with  a  big  stick  "  as  well 
as  with  his  tongue. 

But  neither  of  these  modes  of  inducing  persons  to 
behave  decently  could  very  well  be  practised  upon  Mrs. 
Wycherly.  Eugene  controlled  himself,  but  his  brow 
was  as  black  as  night,  and  he  spoke  with  what  his  sister 
called  a  snarl. 

"  I  am  able  to  assure  you  that  Mr.  Harding  has  not 
sent  any  flowers,  nor  has  Miss  Arnold  accepted  any 
from  him.  Those  that  you  saw  were  sent  by  quite  a 
different  person." 

"  By  you,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  Yes,  by  me,  if  you  wish  to  know,"  said  Eugene, 
almost  violently  ;  then,  in  a  gentler  tone,  "  Miss 
Arnold  is  an  old  and  valued  friend  of  mine,  and  I  like 
to  give  her  a  little  pleasure  when  I  can." 

Lenore  raised  her  eyebrows.  "  Why,  Eugene,  you 
must  be  rolling  in  money.  Flowers  like  those — in  any 
quantity — would  cost  pounds  ! " 

"  If  I  choose  to  spend  pounds  in  that  way,  what  is  it 
to  you,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I  am  glad  you  are  so  prosperous.  I 
wonder  whether  you  would  really  be  so  prospering  if 
everybody  knew  your  story." 

The  shaft  fell  short.  Eugene  only  smiled  grimly. 
"  Tell  everybody,  then  we  shall  see,  he  said. " 


308  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Now,  dear  Eugene,  I  did  not  ask  you  here  to 
quarrel  with  you.  I  want  to  join  forces  with  you,  as 
you  know  ;  but  how  can  I  do  it,  if  you  will  keep  se- 
crets from  me  ?  How  have  you  managed  to  conceal 
that  little  entry  in  the  register  at  St.  Andrew's  for  so 
long  ?  " 

He  turned  on  her  as  if  thoroughly  startled. 

"What  entry  ?"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  don't  tell  me  that  you  are  ignorant  of  it. 
That  would  be  too  foolish  for  a  man  of  your  intelligence. 
You  can't  possibly  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  never  went 
up  to  St.  Andrew's  and  looked  at  the  register  of 
deaths  ? " 

"  It  may  sound  unintelligent,  but  I  can  assure  you 
that  I  never  did." 

"  I  suppose  it  was  unnecessary  ;  you  knew  the  facts 
too  well,"  said  Lenore,  in  a  disagreeably  significant 
tone. 

"  If  you  like  to  tell  me  what  you  think  you  have 
found  out,  you  may,"  said  the  doctor,  dryly  ;  "  but  if 
you  are  simply  bent  on  dropping  hints,  I  think  we  may 
as  well  say  no  more  about  it.  Yon  wanted  me  to  tell 
you  what  I  thought  of  your  proposals  the  other  night. 
I  really  have  nothing  particular  to  say  about  them.  I 
don't  mean  to  stain  my  hands  with  murder,  if  you  want 
me  to  speak  plainly " 

"I  don't,"  said  Lenore,  sharply;  "I  should  much 
prefer  you  to  keep  silence.  Murder  !  What  an  idea  ! 
But  if  we  could  get  her  out  of  our  way  in  some  harm- 
less manner  that  would  conduce  to  her  own  happiness, 
you  would  not  object,  I  suppose  ?" 

"If  it  were  indeed  her  happiness  that  you  were  con- 
sidering, I  might  not  stand  aloof,  certainly." 


The  Entry  In  the  Book.  309 

"  You  are  very  devoted  to  her,"  said  Lenore,  scoff- 
ingly.  "  What  is  the  tie  ?  Is  she  a  relation  ?  She 
is  not  a  Daunay,  evidently.  Perhaps  you  know  what 
her  origin  is  ?  " 

Dr.  Lechmere  seemed  to  listen  with  a  slightly  puzzled 
air.  "  If  she  is  not  a  Daunay,  I  don't  know  anything 
about  her  origin,"  he  said.  "But  to  the  best  of  my 
belief " 

"  Your  belief  does  not  count  for  much,"  Lenore  in- 
terrupted him.  "  Go  and  look  at  the  register.  The 
real  Annabel  lies  in  that  churchyard." 

"  I  don't  believe  it." 

' '  Go,  as  I  said  before,  and  look.  I  wonder  whether 
Reynold  Harding  will  still  talk  of  marrying  her  when 
he  finds  out  the  truth." 

"  Does  he  talk  of  marrying  her  ?  Do  you  mean  that, 
Lenore  ?  " 

"  Yes,  certainly.  But  of  course  he  was  counting 
upon  her  being  a  Daunay  and  coming  into  the  property. 
He  may  change  his  views  now." 

"  Change  his  views  ?  Leave  her  alone,  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"Ts'o,  I  don't  mean  leave  her  alone.  Did  you  ever 
know  Reynold  leave  any  woman  alone  that  he  had  a 
fancy  for  ? 

Eugene  changed  color.  He  was  silent  fora  moment, 
with  a  curiously  arrested  look. 

"  I  did  not  think  that  he  was  in  earnest,"  he  said  at 
last. 

"Oh,  in  his  way  he  is  very  much  in  earnest.  He 
has  already  begun  to  make  hot  love  to  her,  and  it 
would  not  take  very  much  to  bring  him  up  to  boiling- 
point.  If  Reynold  were  to  run  away  with  her,  there 


3io  Daunay's  Tower. 

would  be  an  end  of  anything  between  her  and  Joce- 
lyn." 

"Yes,"  said  Eugene. 

He  was  looking  at  the  floor  now,  and  biting  his 
mustache,  but  the  black  frown  had  left  his  forehead, 
and  it  struck  Lenore  that  he  was  a  little  pale.  "It  is 
worth  thinking  of,"  he  said  presently,  in  a  suffocated 
kind  of  voice. 

"Isn't  it  ?  I  think  it  is  rather  clever  of  me  to  evolve 
the  idea.  You  see,  Keynold  will  never  think  of  marry- 
ing her  if  she  is  of  unknown  origin  :  he  would  never 
do  such  a  thing.  But  if  she  were — even  compromised 
with  him  a  little  ;  Jocelyn  would  never  put  np  with 
that,  and  I  should  get  my  chance.  I  am  so  glad  that 
you  see  what  an  excellent  idea  it  is,  Eugene.  I  was 
afraid  you  were,  as  usual,  going  to  make  objec- 
tions." 

"You  are  so  fertile  in  ideas  that  you  sometimes  take 
one's  breath  away,  you  see,"  said  Eugene.  "  Well,  I 
must  be  going.  But  I  shall  see  you  again  soon ;  and 
then  you  can  tell  me  how  Keynold  receives  your 
suggestion." 

Something  peculiar  in  his  tone  excited  Lenore's 
suspicions. 

"  One  moment,  Eugene,"  she  said.  "Do  reassure 
me.  You  are  not  backing  this  girl  up,  are  you  ?  It  is 
not  you  who  have  devised  the  scheme  for  passing  her 
off  as  John  Daunay's  daughter  ?  " 

"  I  ?  Most  certainly  not.  What  do  you  take  me 
for  ?  " 

"  Oh,  well,"  said  Lenore,  with  a  suggestive  drawl ; 
te  you  shouldn't  ask  that,  you  know — with  your  reputa- 
tion. I  thought  you  might  have  had  your  own  *  little 


The  Entry  In  the  Book.  313 

been  fooled  all  along  ?  "  he  cried.  "  Did  you  know  of 
this?" 

The  doctor's  eye  grew  keen  and  cold.  "  Did  I  know 
of  what  ?"  he  said.  "  You  must  explain  yourself  ?" 

"  You  knew  of  the  entry  in  this  book  ?  " 

"  I  have  never  seen  any  entry  in  that  book." 

"  Look  at  it  now  then."  And  Jocelyn  pointed  with 
a  shaky  finger  to  the  lines  that  Mrs.  Wycherly  had 
read.  They  set  forth  in  the  usual  official  manner  the 
death  of  Betha,  wife  of  John  Daunay,  and  also  of 
Annabel,  her  child. 

"  I  thought  you  were  with  her  when  she  died,"  said 
Jocelyn. 

"I  was.  I  saw  a  living  child  then,  not  a  dead  one," 
said  Dr.  Lechmere,  in  a  troubled  tone. 

"  The  child  must  have  died  afterwards,  and  another 
been  substituted  for  it.  Then  who  is  the  Annabel  that 
I  know  ?  " 

His  face  was  white  and  drawn  :  it  seemed  to  Eugene 
that  he  was  unduly  agitated  by  the  discovery  that  had 
been  made. 

"It  seems  a  mystery,"  said  the  doctor  gravely, 
"  but  no  doubt  it  will  be  made  clear  in  time.  Perhaps 
Miss  Arnold  can  throw  some  light  upon  the  subject." 

He  had  entirely  dropped  the  curtness  of  speech,  the 
irony  of  tone,  which  usually  distinguished  him  ;  he 
was  serious,  thoughtful,  deliberate,  as  if  the  gravity  of 
the  situation  weighed  him  down.  But  Jocelyn's  ex- 
citement seemed  to  increase  rather  than  diminish. 

"Tell  me, "he  said — and  his  face  was  so  haggard 
that  Eugene  forgave  him  the  offensive  words  as  soon 
as  they  were  out  of  his  mouth — "tell  me  that  it  isn't 
your  doing  ?  I  liked  you,  I  believed  in  you  from  the 


314  Daunay's  Tower. 

first  ;  but — but  if  it  is  true  that  you  once  did  a  man  a 
deadly  wrong  for  the  sake  of  his  money,  as  she  says  you 
did " 

"  That  is  quite  enough,"  said  Lechmere,  quietly, 
and  without  any  appearance  of  anger.  "  She  has  told 
you  the  story  as  the  world  tells  it,  but  you  need  not 
repeat  it  to  my  face.  For  Annabel's  sake,  I  will  give 
you  an  answer.  I  would  not  do  it  for  any  one  else  in 
the  world.  I  did  once  take  a  man's  life,  and  I  suf- 
fered for  it.  I  was  tried  for  manslaughter  and  im- 
prisoned. I  did  it  by  pure  accident,  or  perhaps  I 
should  say  through  wicked  carelessness  ;  but  it  was  not 
by  design,  and  certainly  not  in  order  to  make  gain  for 
myself  through  his  death.  I  have  done  many  a  bad 
thing  in  my  life,  Jocelyn  Daunay,  but  I  have  not  yet 
dishonored  myself  for  the  sake  of  money." 

"  I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  faltered  Jocelyn,  turning 
away.  "  I  don't  know  what  to  think.  I  am  confused, 
bewildered.  To  think  of  this  entry  being  here  all  this 
time  ;  to  think  that  we  never  looked  for  it  !  I  have 
got  the  proofs  of  the  marriage  safely  enough  ;  but 
what  is  the  use  of  them,  if  Annabel  is  somebody  else's 
child  ?  " 

He  walked  out  of  the  church  as  if  he  did  not  know 
what  he  was  about  ;  and  Dr.  Lechmere,  following  him 
silently  down  to  the  churchyard  gate,  saw  him  throw 
himself  on  his  horse  and  ride  off  at  a  pace  which 
seemed  as  if  he  were  bent  upon  his  own  destruction. 

"  She  has  poisoned  his  mind,"  said  Eugene,  watch- 
ing the  retreating  figure.  "  She  is  a  clever  woman  ; 
and  she  will  end  in  having  her  way.  He  does  not 
know  what  or  whom  to  believe,  but  he  will  believe 
her.  Poor  Annabel  !  I  think  I  must  go  to  the  farm 


The  Entry  In  the  Book.  315 

and  have  a  chat  with  Miss  Arnold.     She  may  be  able 
to  throw  some  light  upon  the  matter." 

But  neither  then  nor  afterwards  could  Jane  Arnold 
tell  him  more  than  he  knew  already.  An  impenetrable 
veil  of  mystery  seemed  to  hang  over  the  true  story  of 
Annabel's  birth. 


316  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTEE  XXXII.  ( 

IN     THE    HOUR     OP    NEED. 

FOE  the  next  few  days  doubt  and  confusion  reigned 
in  the  minds  of  all  who  were  interested  in  the  destina- 
tion of  the  Daunay  property.  Mr.  Clissold  himself 
appeared  upon  the  scene,  and  declared  that,  in  face  of 
that  entry  in  the  register  and  the  absence  of  any  proof 
that  Annabel  was  John  Daunay's  daughter,  she  had  not 
the  shadow  of  a  case.  The  old  lawyer  interviewed 
every  one  in  turn,  including  Dr.  Lechmere,  with  whom 
he  had  a  very  stormy  colloquy. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  sir,  that  you  are  responsible  for 
the  whole  story,"  said  Mr.  Clissold,  holding  himself 
very  erect,  and  trying  to  look  as  judicial  as  he  could. 
"  It  was  you,  apparently,  who  made  the  first  statement 
to  Miss  Jane  Arnold  that  the  child  you  conveyed  to  her 
was  Mr.  Daunay's  own  offspring." 

"  Precisely  so,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere.  "  Mr.  Daunay 
himself  gave  me  the  information." 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Daunay  is  not  here  to  answer  for  him- 
self." 

"  He  made  payments,  as  you  know  very  well,  for  her 
education  and  maintenance.  He  recognized  her  as  his 
own  daughter  most  assuredly." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  show  that  she  was  Mr.  Dau- 
nay's child." 

"  Except  his  own  statement." 


In  the  Hour  of  Need.  317 

"  He  never  made  that  statement  to  me,"  said  Mr. 
Clissold. 

Eugene  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  He  made  it  to 
me,  at  any  rate.  As  to  the  entry  in  the  book,  I  can't 
understand  it.  The  clergyman  who  buried  Mrs. 
Daunay  is  dead.  I  don't  know  of  any  responsible  per- 
son who  was  acquainted  with  the  circumstances." 

"  Ah,  that  is  unfortunate,"  said  Mr.  Clissold,  dryly, 
"  I  suppose,  Mr.  Lechmere  " — he  refrained  throughout 
from  addressing  him  as  "doctor" — "you  do  not  know 
the  laws  respecting  conspiracy — conspiracy  to  de- 
fraud ?  » 

"  Afraid  I  don't,"  said  Eugene,  lightly.  "  I  have 
never  had  any  occasion  to  consider  them.  But  the 
suggestion  closes  our  conversation,  I  believe." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  be  better — allow  me  to  say,  Mr. 
Lechmere,  that  it  is  well  to  be  careful  in  matters  of 
this  kind.  The  laws  of  inheritance  must  not  be 
tampered  with,  must  not  be  ignored " 

"  I  have  several  patients  waiting  for  me,"  said 
Lechmere,  "  so  I'll  bid  you  good  morning,  Mr.  Clis- 
sold." 

And  he  walked  out  of  the  room,  ejaculating,  "Pom- 
pous old  fool ! "  as  he  went,  without  being  very  careful 
to  close  the  door  first. 

"  I'll  drive  up  to  the  farm,"  he  said,  putting  on  his 
driving-gloves,  and  inspecting  his  horse  critically  to 
all  appearance,  but  in  reality  seeing  nothing  very 
clearly  because  of  the  rush  of  anger  which  had  nearly 
stifled  him.  "  It's  a  waste  of  time,  no  doubt,  but  I 
must  just  look  at  her  again  and  convince  myself  that 
she's  not  fretting  over  that  cad  of  a  young  Daunay  ! 
What  does  it  matter  to  him  whether  she  is  his  cousin 


318  Daunay's  Tower. 

or  not  ?  Can't  he  see  that  she  is  good,  beautiful, 
gentle,  refined  ?  If  he  were  in  any  way  worthy  of  her, 
he  would  be  a  paragon.  I  wish  I  could  thrash  him  for 
bringing  a  single  shadow  to  her  face,  a  tear  to  her 
sweet  eyes." 

He  set  his  teeth  hard  and  flourished  his  whip  as  he 
set  forth,  with  an  earnest  desire  that  he  could  lay  it 
round  Jocelyn's  shoulders.  But  he  was  unjust  in  his 
judgment  of  Jocelyn.  The  young  man  had  by  no  means 
given  up  his  love  for  Annabel ;  but  he  had  been  terribly 
perplexed  and  troubled  by  the  calumnies  thrown  out 
by  Lenore,  and  now  by  Mr.  Clissold's  reprobation  of 
Dr.  Lechmere.  He  could  not  in  his  heart  believe  that 
there  had  been  anything  of  the  nature  of  a  conspiracy 
between  Miss  Arnold  and  the  doctor ;  least  of  all  did 
he  think  that  Annabel  could  have  deceived  him  as  to 
her  parentage — probably  she  knew  and  thought  less 
about  it  than  anybody  else  ;  but  his  mind  was  clouded 
by  fleeting  and  aimless  suspicions  which,  although  he 
did  not  know  it,  had  all  been  suggested  to  him  by  Mrs. 
Wycherly,  who  was  particularly  skilful  in  the  art  of 
insinuation.  And  Eugene,  who  understood  Lenore  so 
much  better  than  Jocelyn  could  possibly  do,  chafed  at 
the  influence  which  she  had  acquired  over  the  young 
man,  and  thought  him  quite  unworthy  of  Annabel  if 
he  listened  even  for  a  moment  to  Lenore. 

He  walked  from  the  garden  gate  of  the  Moorside 
Farm  to  the  kitchen-door,  and  there  he  paused  for  a 
moment.  A  voice  which  he  knew  was  speaking — could 
it  be  Reynold  Harding's  voice,  and  was  he  speaking  to 
one  of  the  maids,  or  was  it  indeed  to  Annabel  ? 
Eugene's  blood  stood  still  in  his  veins  for  a  moment 
and  then  raced  madly  as  he  listened.  Harding  spoke 


In  the  Hour  of  Need.  319 

in  a  bantering  tone,  which  seemed  to  the  listener  in- 
describably insulting. 

'*  Now,  then,  my  pretty  one,  just  give  me  that  kiss 
before  I  go  away.  I  have  waited  far  too  long  for  it, 
and  I'm  not  going  to  wait  any  longer." 

"  If  you  come  a  step  nearer,  Mr.  Harding,  you  will 
regret  it/'  said  Annabel's  voice,  clear  and  cool  and 
steady,  as  if  she  were  completely  mistress  of  herself. 

"  Come,  now ;  what  right  have  you  to  be  so  par- 
ticular ?  You  are  nobody,  you  know  ;  not  old  Daunay's 
daughter,  nor  the  mistress  of  the  Tower,  to  give  your- 
self such  queenly  airs.  Not  but  what  they  are  very 
pretty,  but  you  must  keep  them  for  the  right  people, 
you  know  ;  for  Jocelyn,  if  you  like,  and  Eugene  Lech- 
mere,  but  not  for  me." 

"  You  hound  ! "  Eugene  shouted,  with  a  sudden 
leap  forward.  But  he  had  no  need  to  defend  Annabel. 
She  had  suddenly  thrown  the  contents  of  a  jug  of  hot 
milk  over  the  unhappy  Eeynold ;  and  although  the 
milk  was  not  boiling,  it  was  hot  enough  to  make  him 
very  uncomfortable,  and  the  white  stream  did  not  add 
to  the  beauty  of  his  appearance. 

"  You  little  vixen  !  "  he  gasped  ;  but  it  was  difficult 
for  him  to  speak,  as  the  hot  liquid  had  been  dashed 
full  in  his  face  and  was  half  blinding  him.  His  height 
and  bulk,  which  would  ordinarily  have  made  him  a 
formidable  antagonist  to  Eugene,  now  availed  him 
nothing  ;  and  the  doctor  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  oppor- 
tunity of  turning  his  gigantic  cousin  ignominiously 
out  of  doors.  He  did  not  even  resist  the  gratification 
of  speeding  Mr.  Harding's  exit  by  a  timely  kick. 

"  Get  out  of  this,  you  unutterable  cad  ! "  he  cried  ; 
and  he  was  not  at  all  disturbed  when  Reynold  half 


320  Daunay's  Tower. 

turned  back  to  pour  out  a  string  of  curses  and  threats 
of  vengeance  upon  him  and  upon  Annabel  also.  His 
aspect  was  so  unheroic  while  he  stormed  and  threat- 
ened that  Dr.  Lechmere  relieved  his  feelings  by  burst- 
ing into  a  derisive  laugh  and  bidding  him  take  his 
figure  off  elsewhere.  Whereat  Reynold  slunk  away — 
there  was  no  other  word  for  his  mode  of  retreat — and 
Eugene  went  back  to  Annabel. 

He  found  her  crying,  and  immediately  patted  her  on 
the  shoulder  and  began  to  praise  her. 

"  That  was  splendid,"  he  said.  "  You  did  it  very 
well,  Annabel,  and  he  thoroughly  deserved  it.  I  hope 
the  milk  was  hot  enough  to  scald  him  a  little." 

"  Don't  laugh  about  it,  Dr.  Eugene,"  she  implored 
him.  "It  is  dreadful  to  have  to  do  such  things.  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  lost  all  my  self-respect.  But  I  could 
not — could  not — let  him  come  any  nearer.  If  he  had 
touched  me,  I  should  have  killed  him — almost." 

"He  has  had  a  lesson,"  said  Eugene.  "  I  hope  you 
will  not  see  any  more  of  him.  I  am  afraid  he  has  been 
troubling  you  for  some  time  ?  " 

"  It  has  been  worse  lately — ever  since  that  register 
was  found.  He  seemed  to  think  that  it  did  not  matter 
what  he  said  or  did  to  me  now — if  I  were  not  Mr.  Dau- 
nay's daughter  I  had  no  importance  in  the  world  at 
all." 

"  My  dear  girl,  you  must  not  mind  what  is  said  by 
men  of  his  stamp." 

"  Xo,  but  it  is  not  altogether  that,  Dr.  Eugene  ; " 
and  he  felt  her  tremble  as  she  spoke.  "  Other  men — 
not  of  his  stamp — seem  to  take  the  same  view." 

"  Not  your  doctor,  for  instance  ?  "  he  asked,  trying 
to  make  her  smile. 


In  the  Hour  of  Need.  321 

"  No,  not  my  doctor  !  not  my  own  dear,  good  Dr. 
Eugene  !  Oh,  what  I  should  have  done  without  you 
all  these  years — what  I  should  do  without  you  now — I 
do  not  know." 

"  Who  is  it,  then,  my  dear,  that  is  not  kind  to  you  ?  " 
said  Dr.  Lechmere,  steadily.  He  had  adopted  the 
gravest  and  most  fatherly  tone. 

"  Oh,  no  one  is  unkind.  It  is  only  Mr.  Daunay," 
she  said  somewhat  unsteadily,  "Jocelyn  Daunay,  I 
mean,  who  said  that  he  wanted  to  be  my — our — friend. 
Do  you  know  he  has  not  been  here  once  since  he  re- 
turned from  Paris  ?  He  just  sent  a  note  to  Aunt  Jane, 
enclosing  the  copies  of  the  certificate  and  other  papers  ; 
and  that  was  all.  It  does  not  look  very  friendly,  does 
it,  Dr.  Eugene  ?  " 

"  Xot  very.  But  I  think  he  is  busy,  and  perhaps 
a  little  worried,"  said  the  doctor,  driven  to  make  ex- 
cuses for  the  young  man  whom  at  that  moment  he 
hated,  because  he  saw  the  trouble  in  Annabel's  eye. 
"  The  very  fact  that  his  lawyer  thinks  that  he  has  a 
right  to  the  estate  might  prevent  him  from  coming 
here,  if  he  has  a  delicate  and  generous  mind.  He  may 
be  very  much  puzzled  what  course  to  adopt,  you  see." 

"  There  is  no  course  for  him  to  adopt  but  to  take 
possession  of  the  estate  and  let  me  alone,"  said  Anna- 
bel. "  But  he  might  have  come  to  see  us — just  to  let 
us  know  that  he  did  not  think  ill  of  Aunt  Jane — and 


me- 


She  turned  her  face  aside  for  a  moment,  and  Dr. 
Lechmere  stood  silent,  with  the  dark,  frowning  look 
upon  his  face,  which,  as  a  rule,  he  did  not  like  Anna- 
bel to  see.  But  he  was  too  much  absorbed  by  his  own 
thoughts  just  then  to  care  how  he  looked. 
21 


322  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Annabel,"  he  said,  at  length.     "  Annabel." 

"Yes,  Dr.  Eugene." 

"  You  know  what  is  likely  to  happen  before  very 
long  ?  You  know  that  you  will  soon  be  alone  in  the 
world?" 

She  caught  her  breath  a  little.  "  I  suppose  I  know. 
1  have  not  dared  to  say  it  to  myself." 

"  But  you  must  face  it.  It  is  only  a  question  of  days 
now." 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Eugene." 

The  name  fell  from  her  lips  like  a  wail  of  grief.  Eu- 
gene looked  at  her  quickly — there  was  all  the  sympathy 
of  which  his  sensitive  nature  was  capable  in  his  beauti- 
ful hazel  eyes — and  held  out  his  hand.  She  put  her 
own  into  it,  and  he  held  it  while  he  spoke  with  incom- 
parable gentleness. 

"  Annabel,  in  the  days  that  are  coming,  it  may 
chance  that  you  find  yourself  very  lonely,  very  much 
troubled,  very  much  wronged,  as  it  may  seem  to  you, 
by  the  world.  Will  you  remember  then,  my  dear,  that 
there  is  one  heart  always  open  to  you,  one  house  where, 
if  you  will  you  may  always  be  at  home  ?  It  may  be  a 
comfort  to  you  to  think  of  this  when  yon  feel  that  the 
clouds  are  gathering  round  you,  and  you  are  wander- 
ing in  the  desert  alone." 

She  was  looking  into  his  face  with  eyes  that  won- 
dered, but  which,  as  he  felt,  trusted  too. 

"I  shall  always  remember,"  she  said,  softly. 

"  You  are  young  and  beautiful,"  the  doctor  said, 
"but  youth  and  beauty  do  not  always  save  us  from 
trouble  in  this  life,  Annabel.  And  I  am  old  and  ugly 
and  have  a  bad  reputation  and  a  bad  temper,  which  is 
almost  a  worse  burden  ;  and  I  once  vowed  that  I  would 


In  1 

die  sooner  than  s 
But  I  am  saying  i 
There  is  nothing  I 
possible  that  I  coul 
you,  Annabel,  I  wo 
will  ever  care  for  yc 
Eugene." 

"  I  am  glad  " — came 
tinctly,  but  she  was  awe 
tone,  and  could  not  speak. 

"  Therefore,  my  dear,  as 
only  to  call  upon  me   and  I    , 
help  you.     If  you  are  in  want,  in  pa 
must  turn  to  me.     My  home  is  yours 
my  name  even — if  you  care  for  it— 
you  understand  ?  " 

"  I  think  so.     You  are  too  good  to  n 

"  How  can  that  be  ?    Xo  human  so. 
be  too  good  to  another.     Look  you,  / 
had  trouble  in  my  time  ;  I  know  wha 
the  loss  of  all  earthly  affection,  all  ties  t. 
to  this  earth.     It  is  a  hell  of  loneliness  L 
gladly  spare  every  one  whom  I  care  for.     Ch 
go  lonely,  do  not  go  in  pain,  if  I  am  alive  to  h 
helping  hand  to  you." 

"I  will  not.     I  will  turn  to  you — always, 
will  turn  to  you." 

"  But  not  if  others  want  you.  Do  you  think  I  have 
not  learned  in  all  these  years  to  stand  aside  ?  I  am 
used  to  seeing  myself  forgotten,  Annabel.  It  is  only 
if  you  have  no  one  else  that  I  will  offer  myself  to  fill, 
as  far  as  I  can,  the  emptiness  that  others  may  have 
left." 


r. 

Aether  understand. 
.Id  dawn  when  she 
aen  she  would  know 
.reamed  of,  had  been 


of  her,  as  yet. 
.t-  were,  into  the  events 
hmbre  went  up-stuirs  to 
j  was  growing  almost  too 
at  in  the  affairs  of  ordinary 
jdndly,  promised  to  look  after 
was  gone,  and  finally  took  his  leave, 
ig  gaze  into   Annabel's  clear  eyes, 
3  color  to  her  somewhat  pale  and  sad- 


The  Doubts  of  Jocelyn  Daunay.      325 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

THE   DOUBTS   OF  JOCELYN    DAUNAY. 

MR.  CLISSOLD  took  his  departure  with  a  feeling  of 
extreme  satisfaction  at  the  new  development  of  affairs. 
He  also  was  a  good  deal  alarmed  at  what  he  considered 
the  very  unsatisfactory  state  of  Jocelyn's  mind  ;  he 
could  not  make  the  young  man  out  at  all.  When 
they  had  previously  met  in  London,  Jocelyn  had 
seemed  so  confident  and  clear  as  to  what  he  wanted, 
and  the  lawyer,  who  liked  definiteness  above  all  things, 
had  quite  warmed  to  him.  But  now  that  everything 
was  going  on  well,  he  had  become  moody,  irritable, 
and  utterly  unlike  himself.  Mr.  Clissold  was  disposed 
to  refer  this  condition  of  things  to  the  influence  of 
those  two  most  undesirable  people,  Mrs.  Wycherly  and 
Dr.  Lechmere.  Of  course,  he  knew  all  about  their  re- 
lationship, just  as  he  knew  Eugene's  past  and  Lenore's 
reputation  in  society  ;  but  he  had  not  yielded  to  his 
first  angry  impulse  and  betrayed  his  knowledge.  After 
all,  he  owed  Mrs.  Wycherly  something  for  having  put 
him  on  the  track  of  that  remarkable  entry  in  the  regis- 
ter of  St.  Andrew's-on-the-Hill ;  and  when  she  pointed 
out  to  him,  as  she  did  at  a  convenient  time  very  soon 
after  his  arrival,  that  her  family  had  entirely  cast  off 
Eugene,  and  that  she  particularly  wished  not  to  be  in 
any  way  associated  with  him,  Mr.  Clissold  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  held  his  tongue. 

He    did   not  like   Leuore  any   more   than  he  liked 


326  Daunay's  Tower. 

Eugene,  but  he  had  a  great  respect  for  their  father, 
whom  he  had  known  many  years  ago,  and  who  was  as 
straightforward,  upright,  and  honorable  a  gentleman 
as  could  be  found  in  the  kingdom.  Mr.  Clissold  kne\v 
that  it  was  not  advisable  to  make  mischief  ;  at  the  same 
time  he  told  himself  that  if  there  was  any  likelihood  of 
Jocelyn's  proposing  to  marry  Mrs.  Wycherly,  it  would 
be  an  exceedingly  great  pleasure  to  himself  to  inform 
the  young  man  of  Lenore's  relationship  to  Dr.  Lech- 
mere  ;  also  of  her  age,  and  various  other  details  of 
which  the  lawyer  conceived  that  Jocelyn  must  neces- 
sarily be  ignorant. 

Mrs.  Wycherly  saw  him  go  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
His  cool  and  critical  eye  made  her  sometimes  a  little 
nervous  ;  she  was  afraid  of  his  asking  awkward  ques- 
tions or  making  unlucky  remarks.  She  told  herself 
pettishly  that  she  had  never  stayed  in  a  house  with  a 
person  who  thought  so  badly  of  her  ;  she  knew  that 
she  might,  of  course,  be  mistaken,  and  it  was  only  that 
Mr.  Clissold  did  not  see  fit  to  mask  his  sentiments 
quite  so  closely  as  some  people  ;  indeed,  Jocelyn  was 
a  little  astonished  at  the  abruptness  of  his  manner  to- 
wards Mrs.  "Wycherly,  and  would  have  resented  it  had 
he  been  in  his  usual  state  of  mind.  But,  it  must  be 
confessed,  Jocelyn  was  a  little  off  his  balance  ;  the 
fatigue  and  anxiety  of  his  hurried  journey  to  Paris  and 
back,  the  shock  of  the  discovery  which  awaited  him  on 
his  return,  the  softly  suggested  doubt  not  only  of  Jan-- 
Arnold and  Dr.  Lechmere,  but  even  of  Annabel,  had 
thoroughly  upset  him  for  the  time  being,  and  insti-ad 
of  his  sunny-natured  self,  he  was  transformed  into  an 
exceedingly  morose  young  man,  upon  whose  amiability 
no  one  could  for  a  moment  rely. 


The  Doubts  of  Jocelyn  Daunay.      327 

Mr.  Clissold  took  it  upon  himself  to  give  him  a  word 
of  advice  when  the  young  man  saw  him  off  at  the 
nearest  station,  which  was  three  miles  from  the  village 
of  High  Rigg. 

"  You  must  have  had  a  good  deal  of  worry  and 
bother  connected  with  this  business,  Mr.  Daunay,"  he 
remarked  ;  " and,  if  I  were  you,  I  would  just  leave  it 
all  now  in  the  hands  of  the  lawyers,  and  not  trouble 
your  head  any  more  about  it.  You  can  do  no  more, 
and  it  would  be  as  well  for  you  to  leave  it  to  us." 

"  That  is  very  easy  to  say,"  said  Jocelyn,  rather 
irritably  ;  "  but  it  is  impossible  for  me  not  to  be  anx- 
ious, and  I  like  to  be  on  the  spot." 

"  And  it  is  the  worst  possible  thing  in  the  world  for 
yon  to  be  on  the  spot,"  said  Mr.  Clissold,  energetically. 
"  It  is  no  use  shilly-shallying,  there  have  been  so  many 
ups  and  downs  in  the  business  that  the  matter  must  be 
brought  before  the  Courts.  Personally  I  have  no  doubt 
as  to  your  being  Mr.  Daunay's  heir  ;  but  if  the  other 
side  wants  to  fight — well,  we  can  fight  too." 

"I  never  heard  that  the  other  side  did  want  to 
fight,"  said  Jocelyn,  remembering  that  the  "other 
side  "  meant  Annabel. 

"  If  one  goes  by  what  that  fine  gentleman,  Eugene 
Lechmere,  says  about  it,  I  should  say  that  he  meant  to 
fight  you  tooth  and  nail,"  said  Mr.  Clissold. 

Jocelyn  reflected  that  this  had  been  Dr.  Lechmere's 
own  expression  when  they  first  made  acquaintance. 
How  manly  and  straightforward  Eugene  Lechmere  had 
seemed  to  him  then  !  He  had  almost  to  repress  a  sigh 
as  he  answered — 

"  It  would  be  the  height  of  folly  for  them  to  fight  it 
in  face  of  that  entry  in  the  register,  I  should  say." 


328  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Possibly  he  may  have  a  card  in  reserve.  I  should 
keep  a  good  lookout  while  you  are  here,  Mr.  Daunny  ; 
but  I  still  advise  you  to  leave  the  neighborhood  for 
the  winter.  Suppose  you  went  to  the  Riviera  now,  or 
even  as  far  as  Egypt  and  Palestine  ?  That  would  be  u 
good  distraction  for  your  mind." 

"  And  throw  up  my  work  in  the  Foreign  Office  ?  " 
said  Jocelyn,  scornfully.  "  You  forget  that  if  the  case 
went  against  me — if,  as  you  say,  the  other  side  have  a 
trump  card  in  reserve — I  should  be  thrown  on  the 
world  with  no  visible  means  of  support,  as  the  news- 
papers say.  And  what  should  I  do  then  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  spoke  of  an  amicable  compromise  ?  " 
suggested  Mr.  Clissold. 

"  Ah,  yes  !  But  that  was  if  I  won  the  day,"  said 
Jocelyn,  with  unconscious  humor,  at  which  Mr.  Clis- 
sold secretly  laughed. 

"  I  see,"  he  said.  "  You  don't  object  to  letting  the 
young  lady  owe  you  something,  but  you  object  to  owe 
her  anything  at  all.  I  suppose  you  have  changed  your 
views  with  regard  to  that  little  project  of  marriage  of 
which  you  spoke  to  me  ?  " 

"No,  Pve  not  changed  my  mind/'  said  Jocelyn. 
moodily  ;  "  but  I  doubt  whether  she  will  have  me, 
and — the  whole  thing's  in  a  tangle,  and  I  don't  know 
what  to  do." 

Mr.  Clissold  wisely  forbore  to  make  any  further  re- 
mark ;  but  he  said  to  himself  that  it  was  evident  that 
Mr.  Daunay  had  found  out  the  true  nature  of  the  girl, 
and  did  not  like  to  own  that  he  had  made  a  mistake. 

Jocelyn  returned  home  in  a  more  distressed  and  per- 
turbed state  of  mind  even  than  before.  He  wished 
that  he  had  the  courage  to  go  and  see  Annabel,  but 


The  Doubts  of  Jocelyn  Daunay.      329 

somehow  he  felt  it  terrible  to  face  her  with  that  un- 
spoken question  in  his  mind.  Had  she  not  known  all 
the  time,  or,  at  least,  had  not  Miss  Arnold  known  ?  It 
was  a  perfectly  maddening  suspicion,  and  he  had  not 
yet  realized  that  it  had  been  dropped  into  his  mind 
from  without. 

There  was  not  very  much  of  a  garden  round  about 
Daunay 's  Tower,  for  it  had  been  suffered  to  fall  into  a 
wilderness-like  state  for  want  of  proper  attention  ;  but 
there  was  one  walk  which  was  reputed  to  have  been 
made  in  the  last  century  to  please  the  invalid  wife  of 
the  Daunay  who  flourished  at  that  time.  It  was  shel- 
tered on  one  side  by  a  high  bank,  overgrown  with 
bracken  and  shaded  by  tall  beech  trees  ;  on  the  other 
side  the  ground  sloped  away  to  the  base  of  the  valley, 
where  the  little  river  made  a  pleasant  sound  as  it  rushed 
over  its  pebbly  bed,  sheltered  from  the  north,  and  open 
to  all  the  sunshine  that  was  obtainable. 

"  The  Ladies'  Walk,"  as  it  was  usually  called,  was 
pleasant  even  in  winter,  and  during  the  fine  days  which 
occur  sometimes  in  the  month  of  October,  it  made  as 
pleasant  a  resort  as  one  could  find  in  a  much  more 
southern  clime.  For  the  most  part  it  was  concealed 
from  the  eyes  of  a  casual  observer,  but  one  turning  in 
it  was  visible  from  some  of  the  windows  of  Daunay's 
Tower  ;  and  it  was  from  one  of  these  windows  that 
Mrs.  Wycherly  saw  Jocelyn  pacing  to  and  fro  in  the 
sunshine,  with  his  head  bent  and  an  air  of  melancholy 
most  uncharacteristic  of  him. 

"  Poor  boy,"  she  said,  her  eyes  softening  as  they 
dwelt  upon  him,  "  how  he  takes  it  to  heart  !  But, 
upon  my  word,  he  is  something  of  an  enigma,  after  all. 
I  don't  quite  know  wbf  ho  is  eating  his  heart  out  in 


330  Daunay's  Tower. 

this  fashion.  Is  it  because  he  thinks  Annabel  a  con- 
scious impostor,  as  I  certainly  tried  to  make  him  be- 
lieve, or  has  he  heard  of  the  attentions  Reynold  bestows 
upon  her  ?  I  think  I  must  try  to  find  out." 

So  she  threw  her  most  becoming  wrap  round  her 
shoulders,  and  made  her  way  quietly  to  the  Ladies' 
Walk,  where  she  was,  of  course,  immensely  surprised 
to  meet  Jocelyn,  who  she  thought  was  miles  away, 
seeing  Mr.  Clissold  off  by  train. 

"  I  have  been  to  the  station  and  come  back,"  Jocelyn 
replied.  "  This  is  a  pleasant  walk,  is  it  not  ?" 

"  Oh,  very,"  said  Lenore,  who  had  not  come  out  to 
talk  about  the  walk.  "  But  do  tell  me  Mr.  Clissold's 
latest  opinion.  I  suppose  he  thinks  that  you  have 
absolutely  nothing  to  fear  ?  " 

"To  fear?"  repeated  Jocelyn,  rather  uncivilly. 
"  I  don't  quite  understand  what  you  mean  by  fear." 

"  But  he  thinks  your  case  secure,  doesn't  he  ?  "  said 
Lenore,  as  if  in  surprise. 

"  He  thinks  that  I  am  John  Daunay's  heir,  if  that 
is  what  you  wish  to  know,"  said  Jocelyn. 

"And  you're  not  pleased  ?"  said  Lenore,  softly. 

He  made  a  movement  of  irritation,  and  then  was 
silent  for  a  moment,  as  if  trying  to  restrain  himself. 

"  I  must  seem  very  bad-tempered,"  he  said  presently, 
with  a  forced  laugh.  "  But  the  fact  is  that  I'm  not 
pleased  at  all  ;  we  have  all  got  ourselves  into  such  false 
positions  over  this  business.  If  the  other  side  would 
only  withdraw  any  claim  it  might  all  be  plain  sailing  ; 
but  Dr.  Lechmere,  who  seems  to  represent  Annabel, 
has  given  no  sign  at  all  of  withdrawing  the  claim,  and 
in  the  present  state  of  affairs  that  seems  to  meabs'urd." 

"  It  is  more   than,   absurd,  it   is   dishonest."  said 


The  Doubts  of  Jocelyn  Daunay.      331 

Lcnore,  with  a  great  show  of  indignation.  "What  is 
the  use  of  their  harassing  you  with  a  claim  which  they 
know  they  -cannot  prove  ?  I  should  have  thought  that 
they  would  have  withdrawn  and  apologized — that  was 
the  only  thing'left  for  them  to  do." 

"  It  is  an  awkward  position  for  her,  as  well  as  for 
me/'  said  Jocelyn,  allowing  himself  to  speak  more 
frankly.  "  But  I  think  she  might  have  sent  me  a 
word  ;  she  might  have  said  that  she  was  convinced  that 
it  had  all  been  a  mistake,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
It  looks — it  almost  looks  as  if  she  wanted  to  fight  the 
matter  out,  in  spite  of  everything." 

**It  is  very  bad  taste,  to  say  the  least  of  it,"  said 
Lenore.  "  I  hope,"  she  added,  rather  hesitatingly, 
' ( the  course  she  is  adopting  has  shown  you — what  I 
have  known  all  along — that  she  is  not  worthy  of  the 
admiration  which  I  know  you  gave  her  at  one  time." 

"Admiration!"  exclaimed  Jocelyn.  "I  gave  her 
my  love."  He  waited  for  a  moment,  and  then  added 
in  a  deeper  tone,  "  And  she  has  it  still." 

"  You're  tremendously  chivalrous,"  said  Lenore. 
"  That  is  just  what  one  respects  in  you  ;  you  are  so 
unlike  the  young  men  of  the  present  day,  and  it  makes 
one  all  the  more  sorry  to  see  you  tricked  and  deluded." 

"But  I  am  not  tucked  and  deluded,"  he  cried.  "I 
may  be  vexed — I  &m  vexed — and  a  little  puzzled  by 
the  present  turn  of  events,  but  I  don't  see  any  reason 
to  think  that  I  have  been  wilfully  deceived." 

"  Well,  it  is  very  nice  of  you  to  say  so,  and  really  I 
don't  blame  the  poor  girl  herself,  for  I  suppose  she 
was  only  the  tool  in  the  hands  of  some  designing  per- 
son. They  would  scarcely  take  her  into  their  con- 
fidence, I  should  think." 


332  Daunay's  Tower. 

"No,  that  is  not  likely." 

"  But  what  I  cannot  believe  is  that  Miss  Arnold  and 
Dr.  Lechmere  are  innocent  in  this  matter.  They 
must  have  known  that  old  Mr.  Daunay's  daughter  died 
when  her  mother  did." 

"  One  would  think  so,"  said  Jocelyu  with  a  groan. 
"And  yet  I  believed  in  them  both  utterly — I  might 
say  I  believe  in  them  still." 

"You  are  so  unsophisticated,''  she  said,  knowing 
full  well  that  this  statement  would  sting  him  a  little — 
"  so  ignorant  of  this  wicked  world.  I  am  older  than 
you  are,  and  perhaps  have  seen  more  of  its  wickedness 
than  you,  and  I  am  bound  to  say  that  I  think  Miss 
Arnold  quite  capable  of  managing  things  '  for  the  best,' 
as  she  would  call  it,  for  the  sake  of  the  girl  .vliom  she 
seems  to  love  so  dearly.  Has  it  not  occurred  to  you 
that  she  is  probably  herself  Annabel's  mother,  and 
that  Dr.  Lechmere  has  known  it  all  the  time  ?" 

Jocelyn  stared  at  her  in  a  sort  of  horror.  "  I  may 
be  ignorant  of  the  world,"  he  said,  "for  certainly  I 
never  thought  of  that."  He  walked  on  for  a  little, 
then  spoke  again.  "Xo,  I  don't  believe  it;  Miss 
Arnold  is  a  good  woman  in  her  way." 

"  Although,"  interrupted  Lenore,  "  you  thought  her 
capable  of  misrepresenting  facts  for  Annabel's  advan- 
tage." 

"Upon  my  word,"  said  Jocelyn,  slowly,  "I  don't 
know  what  to  think."  He  stopped,  and  looked  down 
at  the  valley,  with  the  rushing  stresim,  spanned  by  its 
stone  bridge,  and  the  little  white  houses  on  either  side  ; 
then  his  eye  wandered  further  up  the  hill,  to  where, 
in  a  distant  nook,  a  tiny  patch  of  white  showed,  to  his 
accustomed  eye,  the  walls  of  the  Moorside  Farm.  "I 


The  Doubts  of  Jocelyn  Daunay.      333 

only  know  this,"  he  said,  "  and  I  mean  to  cling  to  it, 
that  I  love  Annabel  as  much  as  ever  I  did,  and  that  if 
she  will  let  me  take  her  out  of  all  this  confusion  and 
doubt  and  difficulty,  I  will  make  her  my  wife  at  once." 

Lenore  uttered  a  shrill  little  laugh.  "  I  cannot  help 
laughing,"  she  said,  as,  with  an  angry  look,  Jocelyn 
faced  her  for  a  moment.  "  But,  you  know,  you  are  so 
delightfully  credulous  !  The  faith  you  put  in  that 
girl  is,  to  me,  most  remarkable.  I  really  cannot  under- 
stand how  you  can  be  so  blind." 

"  Blind  ?  "  said  Jocelyn. 

"  It  is  so  very  evident,"  said  Lenore,  "that  she  is 
watching  for  the  highest  bidder.  At  first,  you  see,  she 
thought  that  she  herself  might  get  the  whole  estate, 
then  you  became  a  second  string  to  her  bow.  I  don't 
in  the  least  suppose,  my  dear  Jocelyn,  that  she  will 
continue  her  claim  to  the  property  so  long  as  you  per- 
sist in  your  intention  to  marry  her ;  but  don't  you  see 
she  is  waiting  for  you  to  declare  your  intentions  more 
clearly  before  she  withdraws  her  claim  ?  If  you  were 
to  break  with  her,  she  would  find  a  good  many  ways 
of  harassing  you  still ;  but  if  you  let  her  know  that  you 
are  still  constant,  I  dare  say  you  will  hear  no  more 
about  her  being  John  Daunay's  daughter,  and  I  should 
not  wonder,  even,  if  she  sent  Reynold  Harding  to  the 
right-about." 

"  What  has  Reynold  Harding  got  to  do  with  it  ?  " 
said  Jocelyn,  bending  his  brows. 

"Oh,  that  has  been  going  on  chiefly  while  you  were 
in  Paris.  You  know  what  an  impulsive  fellow  Reynold 
is  !  I  am  really  sorry  to  s:iy  that  he  has  fallen  head 
over  ears  in  love  with  this  girl,  and  has  been  constantly 
at  the  farm  for  the  last  few  days,  paying  all  sorts  of 


334  Daunay's  Tower. 

attention  to  her.  I  must  say  Miss  Annabel  plays  her 
cards  very  well,"  said  Lenore,  with  a  laugh.  "  She 
makes  quite  a  harvest  out  of  her  lovers,  and  Miss 
Arnold  reaps  the  benefit.  The  house  is  simply 
crammed  with  costly  flowers  and  fruits  and  gifts  of 
all  kinds." 

"  What  ?  Does  Annabel  accept  these  things  from 
Mr.  Harding  ?  " 

"  Go  and  see  for  yourself,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly,  airily. 
"Or  ask  your  sister.  Some  neighboring  clergyman's 
wife  called  upon  her  the  other  day  and  introduced  the 
subject.  She  seemed  perfectly  scandalized,  and  in 
your  interests,  my  dear  Jocelyn,  I  went  up  there  my- 
self, and  certainly,  although  I  didn't  see  Eeynold,  I 
saw  the  flowers." 

"  Flowers  ?  Oh,  flowers  are  not  much.  They 
might  have  been  sent  to  Miss  Arnold  because  she  is 
ill." 

"  You  foolish  boy  !  In  the  wilds  of  Cumberland  one 
cannot  get  the  most  magnificent  roses,  lilies-of-the- 
valley,  violets,  and  stephanotis  for  nothing.  I  should 
say  they  came  from  London ;  they  were  perfectly 
superb." 

Jocelyn's  face  grew  white.  "  Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me,"  he  said,  "  that  Annabel  is  encouraging  this 
man  ?  " 

"I  can  tell  you  nothing,"  said  Mrs.  Wycherly,  "but 
what  I  hear  by  common  report.  Everybody  says  that 
he  is  there  at  every  hour,  and  that  he  sends  these 
wonderful  gifts ;  whether  that  is  true  or  not,  of 
course,  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  assure  you,  but  I 
know  that  he  told  me  the  other  day  that  he  had  com- 
pletely lost  his  heart  to  her — and  his  head  too,  I 


The  Doubts  of  Jocelyn  Daunay.      335 

should  think —  and  that  he  meant  to  make  her  his 
wife." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Jocelyn,  angrily.  "  There 
must  be  some  mistake." 

"  But  why  should  there  be  any  mistake  ?  "  said  Mrs. 
Wycherly.  "  Keynold  is  a  very  handsome  man,  and 
you  must  remember  that  he  is  rich.  Annabel  was  not 
engaged  to  you,  was  she  ?  " 

"  No,  I  had  not  asked  her." 

"Well,  you  see,  she  was  quite  free.  You  should 
have  made  sure  of  her  before  you  went  to  Paris  if  you 
wanted  to  fix  her  wandering  affections  on  yourself." 
Then,  noting  his  downcast  look,  she  dropped  her  tone 
of  raillery,  and  said  in  a  softer  voice,  "It  is  always  the 
unattainable  that  we  want ;  the  people  who  really  care 
for  you  are  those  upon  whom  you  never  cast  a  single 
thought." 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  so  ungrateful/'  said  Jocelyn,  while 
his  dry  lips  moved  with  difficulty ;  but  he  could  not 
bring  himself  to  smile. 

"Xo,  you  are  not  ungrateful  ;  but  you  are  sometimes 
blind.  Believe  me,  the  true  friend  may  sometimes  be 
of  more  value  and  of  more  comfort  than  the  first  love 
of  one's  earlier  days.  You  must  not  despair,  even  if 
Annabel  does  prefer  some  one  else  to  you ;  you  will 
learn  in  time  that  she  was  not  worthy  of  your  regard, 
and  you  may,  perhaps" — Lenore  turned  her  head 
aside,  and  spoke  tremulously — "  remember  those  who 
have  been  faithful  to  you  in  the  hours  of  darkness  as 
well  as  in  the  hours  of  light." 

"  You  have  been  a  good  friend  to  me,  Lenore,"  said 
Jocelyn,  evidently  accepting  the  hint:  but.  as  Lenore 
felt,  not  in  the  least  giving  it  its  true  significance.  He 


336  Daunay's  Tower. 

spoke  heavily,  and  did  not  even  raise  his  eyes  to  her 
face  ;  but  he  held  out  his  hand  and  grasped  hers  for  a 
moment,  and  although  the  grasp  was  a  little  painful, 
she  felt  that  the  time  might  come  when  he  would  find 
comfort  in  the  things  that  she  had  said. 


Jocelyn  Defeats  His  Own  Ends.      337 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

IN  WHICH   JOCELYN   DEFEATS   HIS   OWN  ENDS. 

His  hesitations  were  over  ;  he  must  at  all  risks  see 
Annabel  himself,  and  put  to  her  the  plain  question 
which  he  had  kept  so  long  in  his  heart.  It  was  not 
really  very  long,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  a  century 
had  elapsed  since  he  stood  with  her  in  the  little  sitting- 
room  at  the  Moorside  Farm,  and  watched  her  open  the 
box  which  had  belonged  to  her  mother  long  ago.  Had 
it  been  her  mother,  after  all  ?  That  was  the  worst  of 
it — not  to  be  sure  whether  one  ought  to  laugh  or  cry 
at  the  sentiment  which  had  then  seemed  so  natural 
and  pathetic.  All  the  beauty  of  the  scene  had,  for 
Jocelyn.  dissolved  into  thin  air  ;  everybody  had  been 
tricked  and  deceived  all  round.  Possibly,  then,  Mr. 
Daunay  himself,  who  had  always  acknowledged  Anna- 
bel as  his  child — there  came  back  suddenly  to  Jocelyn's 
mind,  however,  the  remembrance  of  the  day  on  which 
John  Daunay  had  said  to  him,  ft  Annabel  is  dead" — 
perhaps  he  had  known  it  at  the  time  ;  known  that  his 
own  daughter  lay  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Andrew's- 
on-the-IIill,  but  had  chosen,  for  some  reason  of  his  own, 
to  pretend  that  Annabel  was  she. 

It  was  a  bewildering  situation  for  every  one  non- 
cerned,  and,  Jocelyn  was  beginning  to  see,  the  only 
way  out  of  the  difficulty  was  to  renounce  finally  and 
forever  any  desire  to  Ascertain  Annabel's  true  history, 

22 


338  Daunay's  Tower. 

and  to  accept  her,  as  it  were,  on  her  own  merits,  a  girl 
about  whom  nothing  seemed  to  be  known  ;  her  beauty 
and  her  goodness  must  make  up  for  the  want  of  ances- 
try. In  his  own  eyes  this  was  easy  enough,  but  he 
knew  very  well  that  there  would  be  a  struggle  with  the 
world,  which  does  not  like  mysteries.  Still,  Jocelyn 
thought  that  if  Annabel  would  consent  to  marry  him, 
they  might  go  abroad  for  a  time,  live  in  places  where 
they  were  not  known  until  the  story  and  the  scandal 
had  blown  by,  and  then  take  their  proper  places  as 
master  and  mistress  of  Daunay's  Tower. 

But  there  was  this  question  of  Keynold  Harding. 
Was  it  possible  that  she  had  any  liking  for  him  ?  It 
was  certainly  not  possible  that,  as  Lenore  had  sug- 
gested, she  should  choose  Harding  because  he  was  the 
richer  of  the  two  men  who  aspired  to  her  hand. 
Jocelyn  could  not  for  one  moment  bring  himself  to 
believe  that  of  her  ;  but  it  was  quite  possible  that 
Reynold  with  his  handsome  face  and  Herculean  pro- 
portions, had  attracted  her — he  was  known  to  be  at- 
tractive to  women  generally,  and  to  be  extremely 
generous  where  they  were  concerned.  Jocelyn  was 
obliged  to  own  that  Harding  had  a  good  many  advan- 
tages on  his  side. 

The  worst  of  being  young  and  very  much  in  earnest 
is  that  one  conducts  one's  own  affairs  with  lamentable 
want  of  tact  and  prudence. 

Joceleyn,  arriving  in  haste  at  the  Moorside  Farm  at 
a  rather  inconvenient  time,  with  a  hot,  flurried,  ;uid 
distinctly  uncomfortable  manner,  was  not  at  all  the 
person  whom  Annabel  desired  to  see.  It  was  in  the 
middle  of  the  day,  for  Jocelyn  had  hurried  thither 
immediately  after  his  interview  with  Lenore  in  the 


Jocelyn  Defeats  His  Own  Ends.      339 

garden,  and  he  had  arrived  between  the  hours  of 
twelve  and  one,  when,  as  anybody  might  have  known, 
preparations  for  the  midday  meal  were  going  on,  and 
Miss  Arnold's  tray  had  to  be  carried  up-stairs.  With 
all  her  dainty  appearance  and  her  love  of  books, 
Annabel  was  by  no  means  unproficient  in  the  art  of 
cookery,  and  she  generally  made  a  point  of  preparing 
her  aunt's  meals  with  her  own  hands. 

Xo  one  else  could  suit  the  invalid's  taste  so  well,  or 
flavor  the  delicate  soups  and  jellies  and  milk  puddings 
exactly  as  she  liked  them.  So,  when  Annabel  came 
into  the  sitting-room  to  receive  Mr.  Daunay,  she  was 
not  only  disturbed  by  considerations  respecting  love 
and  life  and  the  inheritance  of  a  fortune,  but  by  trouble 
as  to  whether  Keziah  would  not  let  the  milk  boil  or 
break  the  mold  of  jelly  when  she  turned  it  out.  It 
was  a  very  prosaic  mood  to  be  in,  and  not  one  which 
augured  well  for  Jocelyn's  cause  ;  but  the  young  man 
was  too  much  preoccupied  with  his  own  anxiety  to 
vouchsafe  a  thought  to  sublunary  matters  of  this  kind. 

"  I  have  come  back,  Annabel,"  he  began  at  once, 
quite  unconscious  that  his  high-strung  mood  was  not 
at  all  in  accordance  with  her  own.  "  And  you  know 
the  news  that  I  had  thought  was  good  turned  out  to 
be  of  no  use  at  all." 

"  I  am  sorry  you  had  all  that  trouble, "said  Annabel, 
rather  coldly,  "seeing  that  I  am  afraid  yon  took  it  on 
my  account.  The  discovery  made  by  your  friend  Mrs. 
Wycherly  was  much  more  important  to  you." 

"  Mrs.  Wycherly,"  said  Jocelyn,  "  did  not  make  it. 
It  was  she,  certainly,  who  suggested  to  me  that  I 
ought  to  examine  that  old  register  ;  but  she  did  not 
know  that  it  contained  anything  important." 


340  Dau nay's  Tower. 

"  She  has  not  told  you.  then,"  said  Annabel,  "  that 
it  was  she  who  found  it  first  of  all,  and  sent  Dr.  Lech- 
mere  to  look  at  it,  and  then  wrote  to  the  lawyers  ? 
You  ought  to  be  very  much  obliged  to  her.  This  i.s 
something  like  carrying  the  war  into  the  i-nemy's 
camp." 

Jocelyn  looked  at  her  almost  in  reproach.  "Mrs. 
Wycherly  is  my  guest,  and  I  suppose  she  takes  some 
little  interest  in  my  concerns." 

"  But  this  was  my  concern,  I  think/'  said  Annabel, 
with  spirit.  "  Of  course,  I  need  not  say  that  I  owe 
her  no  grudge  for  having  helped  to  discover  the  truth, 
but  I  did  not  know  that  she  had  made  a  secret  of  it. 
Possibly  her  delicacy  of  feeling  made  her  hide  her 
good  deeds." 

"I  don't  think  it  matters  very  much  what  Mrs. 
Wycherly  did  or  did  not  do,"  said  Jocelyn,  assuming  a 
more  masterful  tone.  "  Some  one  would  surely  at  one 
time  or  another  have  thought  of  those  old  registers  ; 
I  wonder  no  one  examined  them  before.  It  did  not 
occur  to  any  one,  I  suppose — to  Miss  Arnold  or  Dr. 
Lechmere " 

There  was  a  flash  in  Annabel's  eyes.  "  Certainly 
not,"  she  said,  "  or  the  entry  would  have  been  placed 
in  your  hands  long  before." 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  said  Jocelyn,  hastily.  "  I 
don't  mean  to  throw  any  aspersion  on  their  charac- 
ters." 

"  Really  I  should  hope  not,"  said  Annabel.  "  You 
will  please  not  do  it  in  my  presence,  at  any  rate." 

The  young  man  was  beginning  to  exasperate  her. 
She  knew  in  her  heart  that  he  meant  well,  but,  like 
most  of  the  young  men  of  her  acquaintance,  he  was  so 


Jocelyn  Defeats  His  Own  Ends.      341 

slow.  There  was  nobody  like  her  dear  Dr.  Eugene  for 
seeing  the  point  at  once,  and  not  being  misled  by  minor 
considerations. 

How  could  Jocelyn  be  so  stupid  as  to  say  a  thing  like 
that,  when  he  must  know  that  the  merest  hint  of  it 
would  be  offensive  to  her  ?  She  wished  very  heartily 
that  he  would  go  away. 

"I  am  afraid/'  he  said — the  young  man  did  not 
know  what  havoc  he  was  playing  with  his  own  dearest 
hopes — "  that  if  what  I  have  heard  is  true,  you  do  not 
regard  me  in  the  same  light  as  when  I  went  away." 

"  In  what  light  did  I  regard  you  ?  "  said  Annabel, 
with  some  defiance  in  her  tone.  "  I  suppose  that  I 
thought  you  were  my  cousin — only  second  cousin,  by 
the  way — not  very  much  of  a  relationship,  after  all. 
It  seems  that  I  am  not  your  cousin,  Mr.  Daunay,  or, 
at  least,  I  cannot  prove  it ;  therefore,  as  you  say,  I 
don't  regard  you  quite  in  the  same  light." 

"It  was  more  than  that,  and  you  know  it,"  cried 
Jocelyn,  impetuously.  "  You  promised  to  like  me  for 
myself — not  because  I  was  a  cousin.  I  don't  care 
whether  I  am  a  cousin  or  not.  It  is  you  that  I  care 
for — you — for  your  own  self,  and  I  wish  the  question 
of  relationship  had  never  been  mooted  at  all." 

"  Or,  in  other  words,  you  wish  that  we  had  never 
met,"  said  Annabel ;  which  was  a  deliberate  and  rather 
malicious  deflection  from  the  meaning  of  Jocelyn's 
words. 

"  If  you  think  that,  there  is  nothing  else  to  be  said," 
remarked  Jocelyn,  full  of  wounded  feeling.  "  I  sup- 
pose it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  you  cannot  care 
for  me  when  another  man  that  you  like  better  comes 
on  the  scene. " 


342  Daunay's  Tower. 

Annabel  recoiled  a  step.  "  Another  man  ?  What 
do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  you  know  very  well,"  said  Jocelyn,  putting 
his  luvnds  into  his  pockets  and  walking  away  to  the 
other  side  of  the  room  and  buck  again.  "And,  of 
course,  I  know  that  I  have  no  chance  against  him — a 
fellow  that  sends  you  flowers,  and  comes  to  see  you 
every  day,  and  does  all  sorts  of  things  for  your  aunt 
and  yourself  that  I  never  have  the  chance  to  do.  I 
suppose  it  is  natural  that  you  should  prefer  him." 

Annabel  did  not  very  often  blush,  but  when  she  did 
the  transparency  of  her  complexion  allowed  the  blush 
to  become  painfully  evident.  A  rush  of  crimson  color 
to  the  very  roots  of  her  hair  confirmed  Jocelyn  in  his 
belief  that  Reynold  Harding  had  entire  possession  of 
her  heart. 

"I  might  have  known  it,"  he  said  ruefully.  "  But 
don't  you  think  he  is  too  old  for  you,  Annabel  ?  Don't 
you  think  that  by  and  by  you  would  care  more  for  some 
one  more  your  own  age,  who  would  sympathize  in  your 
pursuits  and  be  a  friend  and  confidant  as  well  as  a 
husband  ?" 

"  I  can't  say  that  I  have  thought  of  him  in  that 
light  at  all,"  said  Annabel,  with  great  stateliness. 
"  But  as  for  being  a  friend  and  confidant,  there  is  no- 
body that  I  could  esteem  so  highly  or  who  would  be 
more  capable  of  sharing  all  my  pursuits." 

"Good  Heavens!"  said  Jocelyn,  "has  it  come  to 
this  ?  Why,  he  cares  for  nothing  but  horse-racing  and 
higli  play.  I  should  have  thought  he  was  the  last  man 
whom  you  would  have  found  congenial.  Of  course,  1 
know  he  is  a  rich  man,  and  that  makes  up  for  a  good 
deal." 


Jocelyn  Defeats  His  Own  Ends.      343 

"Oh,"  said  Annabel,  with  a  sort  of  slow  amusement 
creeping  into  her  face,  "  perhaps  we  are  not  speaking 
of  the  same  num." 

"  I  didn't  know  there  were  two  persons  to  speak 
about,"  said  Jocelyn,  with  gathering  warmth.  '•'  It 
seems  that  you  have  plenty  of  admirers  at  your  beck 
and  call.  I  refer  to  Mr.  Keynold  Harding,  who  makes 
no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he  intends  you  to  be  his 
wife." 

"  Don't  you  think  that  my  consent  might  be  required 
as  well  as  his  ?  "  she  asked  with  a  faint  smile,  in  which 
her  exasperation  was  beginning  to  show  itself.  Really, 
this  young  man  was  very  foolish.  What  did  he  expect 
her  to  do  ? 

"  Oh,"  said  Jocelyn,  quickly,  "  if  you  are  not  inclined 
to  let  me  take  any  interest  in  what  concerns  you,  I 
may  as  well  go  altogether." 

•  "I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you  for  your  interest," 
Annabel  responded,  "  but,  of  course,  I  must  manage 
my  own  affairs." 

"Then  you  send  me  away?"  said  Jocelyn.  He 
turned  very  pale  as  he  said  it,  and  looked  at  her  with 
a  piteously  disappointed  air,  which  all  but  softened 
Annabel's  heart  towards  him. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  Mr.  Daunay.  I 
can  only  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  and  especially 
for  your  going  to  Paris — though,  naturally,  that  was 
your  affair  as  well  as  mine — and  say  good-by." 

"  But,  Annabel— 

"  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  you  should  call  me 
Annabel.  I  shall  retain  aunt's  name — I  shall  be  Miss 
Arnold  henceforward,  Mr.  Daunay.  Will  you  please 
remember  ?" 


344  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Is  there  no  hope  for  me,  then  ?  "  said  Jocelyn. 
"  I  have  no  right  to  claim  anything  from  you,  but  you 
did  once  say  that  yon  would  try  to  like  me,  and  that 
we  would  be  friends." 

"I  thought  you  were  my  cousin  then." 
"I  may  be  your  friend  without  being  a  cousin." 

"If  being  a  friend,"  said  Annabel,  with  decision, 
"authorizes  you  to  come  and  repeat  to  me  all  the 
gossip  that  you  have  heard — about  Mr.  Harding,  for 
instance — I  think  I  had  rather  we  were  enemies." 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  poor  Jocelyn.  "  I 
only  wanted  to  know  the  truth.  If  he  sends  you 
flowers " 

"He  does  not  send  me  flowers." 

"  There  is  some  one  else  then  ?" 

Jocelyn's  quick,  jealous  accent  moved  Annabel  to 
scornful  laughter.  "  Yes,  there  is  some  one  else," 
she  said.  "  Now  guess  who  it  is — and  go." 

She  sprang  to  the  door  and  opened  it,  pointing  to 
the  passage  with  an  air  of  supreme  contempt.  The 
smell  of  burning,  wafted  to  her  from  the  kitchen  pre- 
cincts, was  enough  to  make  any  young  housekeeper 
impatient.  And  she  was  not  in  a  tragic  mood.  "  Oh, 
do  go,"  she  said,  in  a  different  tone.  "  Aunt  Jane's 
dinner  will  be  quite  spoiled,  and  all  through  you. " 

Jocelyn  withdrew,  with  a  good  deal  of  offended 
dignity.  But  when  he  reached  the  garden-gate  he 
hesitated.  It  was  hard  to  part  from  her  in  this  way. 
Yet  if  he  went  now,  he  felt  that  he  should  never  come 
back  again. 

Perhaps  she  had  some  such  feeling  herself,  at  the 
bottom  of  her  heart.  For  as  he  paused  by  the  gate, 
with  his  heart  sore  and  something  not  unlike  moisture 


Jocelyn  Defeats  His  Own  Ends.      345 

in  his  eyes,  Miss  Annabel  glanced  at  him  through  the 
window,  and  relented  a  little  bit.  Jocelyn  could 
hardly  believe  in  his  good  luck  when  her  voice  once 
more  fell  upon  his  ear. 

"I  was  rude  to  you,  Mr.  Daunay.  I  beg  your  par- 
don. I  did  not  mean  to  be  uncivil,  but  one  is  irri- 
table sometimes,"  said  the  penitent. 

"Don't  think  of  it,"  said  Jocelyn  eagerly,  with 
such  a  sudden  lighting  up  of  all  his  face  that  Anna- 
bel drew  back  half  afraid.  "Will  you  forgive  me  my 
impertinence  ?  " 

"  I  will  not  call  it  by  that  name.  But  you  must  not 
believe  all  you  hear.  Ask — ask  Dr.  Lech  mere." 

"  Dr.  Lechmere  ?  "  A  shadow  came  over  Jocelyn 's 
face  as  he  heard  the  name.  "Why  do  you  make  such 
an  authority  of  him  ?  Why  are  yon  so  fond  of  him  ?  " 

"  Because  he  is  one  of  the  best  and  nicest  men  I 
know,"  she  answered  readily.  "He  has  been  kind  to 
me  all  my  life  ;  and  I  have  had  very  few  people  to  be 
kind  to  me." 

"  You  should  never  say  that  again  if  you  would  but 
listen  to  me.  I  would  surround  you  with  love  and 
care  ;  I  would  set  you  amongst  troops  of  friends  ;  I 
would  be  to  you  the  very  best  friend  you  ever  had." 

"  Would  you  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  little  smile.  "  But 
you  have  one  great  drawback  :  you  have  not  known 
me  since  I  was  a  baby,  as  Dr.  Lechmere  has.  And 
you  have  never  taught  me  Latin  or  the  violin." 

"I  might  teach  you  something  else,"  said  Jocelyu, 
looking  down  at  her  and  trying  to  take  her  hand  ;  but 
Annabel  drew  it  resolutely  away. 

"No,"  she  said,  "you  need  not  do  that,  Mr. 
Daunay.  And  I  don't  think  I  could  ever  let  any  one 


346  Daunay's  Tower. 

teach  me  anything,  unless  I  were  absolutely  convinced 
that  my  teacher  trusted  me  in  all  relations  of  life,  and 
did  not  think  I  was  capable  of  doing  a  mean  or  dis- 
honorable thing." 

"  Annabel  !     You  do  not  accuse  me  of  that  !  " 

"You  may  not  have  meant  me  to  see  it,"  she  said  ; 
"but  you  certainly  came  here  to-day  to  question  inc. 
to  make  sure  whether  I  was  not  accepting  presents  of 
flowers  and  other  things  from  that  hateful  Mr.  Hard- 
ing. I  am  sure  you  would  never  have  thought  of  these 
things  for  yourself  ;  they  were  put  into  your  head  by 
Mrs.  Wycherly,  who  is  no  friend  of  mine.  But  the  man 
that  I  trust  must  trust  me  all  in  all,  or  I  would  rather 
not  see  his  face  again." 

"  You  have  my  whole  trust,  Annabel.  I  only  feared 
that  you  were  learning  to  like  some  one — to  love  some 
one  else.  If  so,  by  my  own  love,  I  had  a  right  to  know." 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  It  seems  to  me  that  you  claim 
too  much,  Mr.  Daunay.  Do  you  know  those  lines  of 
Blake's  ? 

"  '  Love  seeketh  not  itself  to  please, 

Nor  for  itself  hath  any  care, 
But  for  another  gives  its  ease, 

And  builds  a  heaven  in  hell's  despair.' 

This  is  the  kind  of  love  I  believe  in,  and  the  one  that 
I  have  some  reason  to  understand.  I  am  not  sure 
that  yours  comes  under  the  same  category." 

"You  are  cruel,"  said  Jocelyn,  who  was  very  down- 
cast, "  and  I  think  you  are  unjust.  Will  you  give  me 
a  little  time  before  you  cast  me  off  ?  Will  you  let  me 
show  you  that  my  love  is  truer  than  you  think  ?" 

He  looked  for  an  answer,  but  none  came.  She  had 
scarcely  heard  the  last  few  words.  Her  eyes  were 


Jocelyn  Defeats  His  Own  Ends.      347 

fixed  upon  a  distant  object  in  the  road.  Jocelyn, 
turning,  caught  the  flash  of  harness  and  glimpse  of 
scarlet  wheels.  "Ah  ! "  said  Annabel,  with  a  long 
inspiration,  and  clasping  her  hands  together  as  she 
stood,  "  there  is  Dr.  Eugene  \" 

It  was  chiefly  for  her  aunt's  sake  at  that  moment 
that  she  was  so  delighted  to  see  the  doctor's  cart  upon 
the  road.  But  it  was  Jocelyn's  fate  that  day  to  mis- 
understand. He  looked  at  the  approaching  vehicle 
and  back  at  her  brightening  eyes,  and  his  face 
clouded. 

"If  such  an  old  friend  is  coming,"  he  said,  "of 
course  you  do  not  want  me  any  longer." 

And  to  Annabel's  infinite  surprise,  he  raised  his  hat 
formally,  said  good-morning,  and  turned  to  walk  down 
the  road.  This  time  she  made  no  effort  to  detain 
him.  After  the  first  moment  of  astonishment,  she 
raised  her  eyebrows  quizzically,  and  smiled. 

"  lie  is  only  a  boy,"  she  said,  with  wondering  scorn. 
"  A  schoolboy,  who  takes  offense  when  he  thinks 
somebody  is  preferred  before  him.  As  if  Dr.  Eugene 
were  not  worth  twenty  Jocelyn  Daunays.  Xot  but 
what  Jocelyn  is  a  nice  boy  in  his  way,"  she  added, 
with  all  the  superiority  of  her  sex  and  age. 

"  I  met  young  Daunay  coming  down  the  road, "said 
Dr.  Eugene,  greeting  her  with  his  bright,  observant 
smile.  "  What  have  you  been  doing  or  saying  to  him 
to  make  him  look  so  miserable  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  at  all,"  said  Annabel.  "  He  is  only 
silly.  I  think  most  men  are  silly — except  you." 

"  I  fear  I  am  no  exception,"  said  the  doctor,  dryly. 

"Yes  ;  the  exception  that  proves  the  rule,  because 
you  are  different  from  the  rest." 


348  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  How  is  my  patient  ?  You  are  beginning  to  look 
pale,  Annabel.  Were  you  sitting  up  last  night  ?  " 

"A  little  while.  Not  all  night.  Aunt  Jane  had 
one  of  her  attacks  of  breathlessuess." 

"  You  will  break  down  if  you  nurse  her  by  day  and 
night  as  well.  I  think  you  must  consent  to  have  a 
trained  nurse  from  Carlisle." 

"  Oh  no,  Dr.  Eugene.  Let  me  do  everything  for 
her  while  I  can." 

"  While  you  are  able — yes.  But  I  think  you  will 
want  more  help  by  and  by.  You  will  not  be  kept  out 
of  her  room,  you  know  ;  but  you  will  have  somebody 
to  share  your  duties.  I  will  see  Miss  Arnold,  and  if 
she  does  not  object,  you  must  be  reasonable,  my  dear 
child,  and  submit." 

"It  will  be  very  hard,"  said  Annabel,  with  the 
sound  of  a  choked-back  sob  in  her  throat  ;  but  at 
the  same  time  she  knew  that  if  Dr.  Lechmere  ordered 
she  must  obey. 


Nurse  Lynch.  349 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

NURSE   LYNCH. 

Miss  ARNOLD  assented,  quite  readily,  to  Dr.  Lech- 
mere's  proposal  of  a  nurse.  "  No,  Annabel  must  not 
wear  herself  out,"  she  said;  "she  must  have  some  one 
to  help  her,  and  to  be  with  her  by  and  by  ! "  She 
looked  meaningly  at  the  doctor  as  she  said  these  words. 
"  Get  a  responsible,  middle-aged  body,  if  you  can, 
doctor  ;  not  a  flighty  young  thing  such  as  I've  seen  in 
Carlisle  streets  sometimes,  with  curls  on  her  forehead, 
all  fly-away  streamers  and  bows  ;  an  elderly  woman,  who 
will  be  useful  to  Annabel — when  the  end  comes." 

The  doctor  considered.  Her  request  was  not  alto- 
gether easy  to  be  complied  with.  The  majority  of  the 
nurses  in  the  institution  to  which  he  was  about  to 
send,  were  young  ;  and  he  knew  well  enough  that  curls 
and  streamers  did  not  prevent  them  from  being  exceed- 
ingly efficient.  However,  he  went  home  and  wrote, 
instead  of  telegraphing,  to  Carlisle.  There  was  no 
immediate  hurry,  and  he  could  make  his  wants  known 
by  letter  more  fully  than  a  telegram.  He  had  a  tele- 
gram in  return  on  the  following  day  :  "  Am  sending 
Nurse  Lynch.  Says  she  knows  you  and  neighborhood, 
and  will  go  straight  to  Moorside  Farm." 

It  was  signed  by  the  Lady  Superintendent  of  the 
Home  to  which  he  had  written  ;  and  as  Dr.  Lechmere 
had  often  obtained  nurses  from  the  same  place,  he  sup- 


35o  Daunay's  Tower. 

posed  that  this  particular  nurse  was  one  whom  he  had 
already  employed.  He  could  not  remember  her  name, 
however.  There  was  no  "  Nurse  Lynch  "  mentioned 
in  his  note-book  or  medical  diary  ;  he  turned  them  up 
to  see.  But  he  had  great  faith  in  the  lady  at  the  head 
of  the  Nursing  Home,  and  he  felt  some  satisfaction  in 
knowing  that  Annabel  would  have  a  helper  and  a 
companion.  She  needed  a  protector,  too  ;  and  if  Nurse 
Lynch  were  a  nice  woman,  it  would  be  a  great  comfort 
to  the  girl  that  she  should  have  an  elderly  woman  with 
her  when  Jane  Arnold's  race  was  run.  For  the  doctor 
knew  very  well  that  his  patient's  life  was  drawing  very 
surely  to  an  end. 

He  was  too  busy  to  do  more  than  send  a  note  to 
Annabel,  telling  her  of  the  nurse's  probable  arrival  that 
day,  and  saying  that  he  would  call  in  the  afternoon. 
So  that  both  Miss  Arnold  and  Annabel  were  prepared 
when  a  fly  from  the  station  drew  up  to  the  garden-gate, 
and  from  it  descended  a  woman  of  more  than  middle- 
age — elderly,  certainly,  with  plainly  banded  gray  hair 
under  her  close  bonnet,  and  a  healthful,  rosy  color  on 
her  cheeks.  She  looked  an  intensely  sensible  person, 
though  one  of  the  old  school  rather  than  the  new — a 
fact  which  had  probably  caused  her  to  be  sent  to  the 
case  described  by  Dr.  Lechmere.  She  was  of  the  old 
family-servant  type,  and  looked  like  a  superior  and  very 
motherly  housekeeper,  or  even  the  matron  of  a  benevo- 
lent institution — a  post  which,  as  Annabel  found,  she 
had  really  occupied  for  some  years  of  her  life. 

"  Ye'll  be  expecting  me,  my  dear,"  she  s;ii<l.  when 
Annabel  received  her — there  was  a  touch  of  the  kindly 
Scots  tongue  in  her  voice — "and  well  I  know  that  it's 
ill  wanting  a  nurse  when  there's  sickness  in  the  house  ; 


Nurse  Lynch. 

but  I  came  as  quick  as  I  conld,  aiid  I  hope  I'll  be  of 
use  to  you." 

"  I  am  sure  you  will,"  said  Annabel.  This  comfort- 
able, sonsy-looking  body  would  be  more  acceptable  to 
her  aunt  than  the  smart  young  hospital  nurse  whom  she 
head  feared. 

"  You  will  have  some  dinner  before  you  go  np-stairs, 
will  you  not  ? — and  I  will  show  you  your  room." 

•"*  I'll  just  have  whatever  you  yourself  may  be  tak- 
ing," said  the  nurse,  cheerfully.  "  And  when  I've  got 
my  bonnet  off,  you  can  let  me  see  my  patient,  unless 
you'd  rather  I  waited  for  Dr.  Lechmere." 

"  You  know  Dr.  Lechmere,  do  you  not  ?  " 

A  smile  came  to  the  nurse's  lips.  "  I  knew  him  a 
little,  my  dear,  a  good  many  years  ago.  A  wild-like 
young  gentleman,  with  the  freest  tongue  I  ever  heard, 
but  clever — I'd  uphold  him  as  clever  to  all  the 
world,  and  kind  at  heart  for  all  his  cantankerous 
ways. " 

"Oh!"  said  Annabel,  rather  distantly.  "Is  that 
the  way  you  speak  of  Dr.  Lechmere  ?  It  must  have 
been  many  years  since  you  saw  him,  or  you  would  know 
that  there's  not  a  cleverer  nor  a  kinder  doctor  in  the 
whole  country-side." 

"  I  always  said  he  was  clever,"  said  Nurse  Lynch, 
comfortably.  "  Yes  ;  they  speak  very  well  of  Dr. 
Lechmere  in  Carlisle.  But  he  wasyoung  when  I  knew 
him,  ye  ken,  and  fond  of  his  little  joke.'"' 

"  I  can  understand  that,"  said  Annabel,  reassured. 
"  And  did  you  nurse  a  case  for  him  in  Carlisle  ?  " 

"  No,  my  dear,  it  was  in  this  part  of  the  world,  but 
many  years  ago.  Is  the  doctor  likely  to  be  here  soon  ?  " 
she  asked,  rather — Annabel  was  quick  to  notice — as  if 


352  Daunay's  Tower. 

she  did  not  want  to  discuss  the  case  which  she  had 
mentioned.  "  And  won't  you  tell  me  about  your  auntie  ? 
for  it's  your  auntie,  isn't  it,  that's  ill  ?  Has  it  been 
long,  my  dear  ?  " 

Annabel  could  not  resist  the  invitation  to  pour  the 
whole  story  of  Miss  Arnold's  long  invalidism  and  ill- 
ness into  the  nurse's  ear,  and  was  pleased  by  the  sym- 
pathy and  attention  which  Nurse  Lynch  bestowed  on 
it.  Her  remarks,  too,  were  all  singularly  apposite  and 
sensible,  so  that  Annabel  began  to  feel  a  great  trust  in 
her  judgment  even  before  she  took  her  up-stairs  to  see 
Miss  Arnold  for  the  first  time. 

Here,  too,  she  was  gratified  to  observe  that  her  aunt 
at  once  seemed  to  like  the  nurse.  Annabel  knew  Miss 
Arnold's  face  so  well  that  its  remotest  change  of  expres- 
sion was  intelligible  to  her,  and  she  would  have  known 
in  a  moment  if  the  presence  of  Nurse  Lynch  had  been 
unacceptable  in  any  way.  But  the  sick  woman  seemed 
interested  by  the  new  arrival,  and  encouraged  her  to 
talk  when  her  afternoon  rest  was  over,  and  Annabel  had 
brought  her  aunt  a  cup  of  tea. 

"Yes,  I've  seen  a  good  bit  of  the  world,"  Nurse 
Lynch  was  saying,  in  her  easy  way,  "and  I  think  nurs- 
ing's as  good  a  thing  as  you  can  lay  your  hand  to  ;  for 
nothing  comforts  one  in  trouble  like  helping  to  bind  tip 
the  hurts  of  other  people." 

"That's  true,"  said  Jane  Arnold,  with  her  hollow 
eyes  fixed  thoughtfully  on  the  speaker's  face. 

"  I've  had  my  troubles,  though  I  seem  to  have  over- 
lived them  now,"  the  nurse  went  on.  "I've  been 
wedded  and  widowed,  and  I  buried  three  dear  children 
of  my  own  ;  but  I  always  say  that  nobody  can  help 
those  in  trouble  except  they  know  what  trouble  is." 


Nurse  Lynch.  353 

"  Was  it  your  losses  that  made  you  take  to  nursing  ?  " 
Miss  Arnold  asked. 

"  Not  to  begin  with,  ma'am.  I  took  to  it  natural 
and  out  of  sympathy  before  I  married,  and  it  was  while 
I  was  single  that  I  met  with  Dr.  Lechmere  before  ;  but 
soon  after  nursing  that  case  for  him,  I  married  and  left 
off  working  for  myself  till  after  my  husband  and  chil- 
dren died.  Then  I  was  the  matron  of  an  orphanage  for 
a  wee  while,  but,  bless  you,  there  wasn't  enough  there 
for  me  to  do,  so  back  I  came  to  Carlisle  and  went  to 
Miss  Blair  at  the  Nursing  Home;  and  I  said,  'If  I'm 
not  too  old,  Miss  Blair,  I'd  be  glad  to  do  a  little  more 
nursing/'  and  that's  how  I  come  to  be  here.  I've  worked 
for  two  years  under  Miss  Blair,  going  out  to  cases  where 
she  recommended  me  ;  and  when  your  doctor  wrote  to 
her  for  a  nurse,  she  came  to  me  and  said,  *  This  is  a 
case  I'm  sure  you'd  like,  Nurse  Lynch,'  and  I  said, 
'Especially  as  I'd  nursed  for  Dr.  Lechmere  before."1 

"  Did  you  come  into  this  neighborhood  to  nurse  for 
him,  then  ?  "  said  Jane. 

"  Yes,  ma'am  I  did  ;  but  it  was  a  private  case  that 
I  was  warned  not  to  talk  about.  "We  do  see  strange 
things,  we  nurses,  in  the  houses  we  go  to.  But  I  should 
say  I've  talked  enough  to  tire  you  now,  and  I'd  better 
say  no  more,  for  I  can  see  that  you  want  a  rest." 

"  Here  is  the  doctor,"  said  Annabel,  looking  out  of 
the  window.  "  I  will  run  down  and  bring  him  up." 

"  She's  a  pretty  creature,"  the  nurse  remarked,  look- 
ing after  her,  "  and  as  good  as  she's  pretty,  I'll  be 
bound.  She  reminds  me  of  some  one  that  I've  nursed, 
but  I  can't  just  now  remember  who." 

Meanwhile  Annabel  met  the  doctor  with  a  beaming 
smile. 
23 


354  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Oh,  she's  a  dear  old  thing,  Doctor  Eugene  !  So 
kind  and  gossipy  and  cheerful  !  Aunt  Jane  likes  her 
immensely,  and  so  do  I.  Where  did  she  nurse  for  you 
before  ?  " 

"  Can't  say  in  the  least,"  Dr.  Lechmere  replied. 
"  It  must  be  some  years  ago.  Perhaps  she  will  be  able 
to  remind  me." 

He  entered  the  sick-room,  with  Annabel  behind  him. 
The  nurse  had  her  back  to  the  window,  so  that  at  first 
he  did  not  see  her  face. 

"  Well,  Miss  Arnold,"  he  began,  addressing  the  in- 
valid, "  how  are  you  getting  on  ?  This  is  Nurse 
Lynch,  I  suppose  ?  "  he  added,  turning  to  the  stout, 
motherly  woman  in  her  close  white  cap. 

"  I  remember  you  very  well,  doctor,"  said  the  nurse, 
in  her  pleasant,  homely  voice,  "  though  it's  eighteen 
years  or  more  since  we  met." 

Eugene  Lechmere  gave  a  violent  start.  A  strange 
look  came  into  his  eyes,  a  look  of  intense  surprise, 
amounting  to  stupefaction.  "You  !"  he  stammered. 
"  Yon,  nurse  !  But  you  were  not  Nurse  Lynch  when 
I  saw  you  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  my  name  was  Paterson." 

"  Ah,  that  is  why  I  could  never  find  yon  again.  I 
wanted  you — for  another  case.  But  we  will  attend  to 
Miss  Arnold  at  present.  Afterwards  I  should  like  a 
word  with  you  in  the  sitting-room  down-stairs." 

He  had  recovered  his  self-possession,  and  gave  all  his 
attention  to  Miss  Arnold  ;  but  Annabel,  who  had 
observed  him  closely,  was  quite  sure  that  he  was  a 
shade  paler  than  usual,  and  that  his  hands  were  dis- 
posed to  shake.  This  was  so  extraordinary  a  sign  of 
agitation  in  Dr.  Lechmere  that  she  felt  almost  alarmed 


Nurse  Lynch.  355 

by  it  ;  but  before  he  left  the  room  she  was  reassured, 
for  he  glanced  at  her  and  smiled.  She  thought  she 
never  had  seen  him  look  at  her  so  brightly,  so  encour- 
agingly— perhaps,  also,  so  tenderly.  It  gave  her  some- 
thing to  think  of  while  he  and  Nurse  Lynch  talked 
together  in  the  sitting-room,  doubtless  about  Miss 
Arnold's  case. 

Presently  she  heard  the  doctor's  foot  upon  the  stairs. 
She  was  surprised  ;  he  was  coming  back,  then,  even 
after  bidding  her  aunt  good  night.  Was  it  possible 
that  he  did  not  consider  Nurse  Lynch  satisfactory,  and 
was  returning  to  tell  Miss  Arnold  that  she  must  be  ex- 
changed for  a  more  conventional  young  person  from 
the  hospital  ?  Annabel  hoped  not  ;  she  had  not  often 
seen  her  aunt  show  so  much  liking  on  a  first  acquaint- 
ance as  she  had  done  to  Nurse  Lynch.  The  doctor 
came  in  alone  ;  his  face  was  flushed,  and  there  was  an 
odd  smile  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Arnold,"  he  said,  "  I  think  I  had 
better  tell  you  beforehand  under  what  circumstances  I 
first  met  the  nurse  who  is  in  attendance  upon  you. 
Don't  let  it  agitate  you.  It  was  she  who  nursed  your 
sister  during  that  last  illness  of  hers  at  Daunay's 
Tower." 

Jane  Arnold  pressed  her  hands  together,  and  smiled  ; 
the  news  did  not  excite  her  in  the  very  least. 

"  I'm  glad  to  think  that  Betha  had  such  a  nice, 
motherly  person  to  look  after  her,"  she  said. 

"  Yes,  I  always  thought  very  highly  of  Nurse  Pater- 
son.  I  tried  to  find  her  for  another  case  or  two  not 
long  afterwards,  but  I  could  not  trace  her.  She 
had  married,  she  tells  me,  and  gone  to  live  iu  Scot- 
land." 


356  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  She  remembers  Betha  ?  She  was  with  her  all  the 
time  that  she  was  ill  ?  " 

"  Yes,  she  remembers  her  very  well." 

Suddenly  Annabel  was  struck  by  the  suppressed  ex- 
citement in  Dr.  Lechmere's  tone.  She  looked  up  at 
him  inquiringly.  He  made  a  slight  movement  with  his 
head,  as  though  to  caution  her  to  be  very  quiet,  then, 
stooping  over  the  bed,  he  took  Jane  Arnold  by  the 
hand. 

"  Does  it  not  strike  you,  also,"  he  said  gently,  "  that 
this  nurse  may  be  able  to  clear  up  the  mystery  which 
has  been  troubling  us  all  for  so  long  ?  Don't  you 
suppose  she  can  tell  us  whether  Betha's  little  daughter 
lived  or  died,  and  who  was  the  child  that  siie  gave  to 
me  to  lay  in  your  arms  ?  " 

"  If  she  can  tell  us  that,"  said  Jane  Arnold,  solemnly, 
"  God  knows  that  I  shall  die  in  peace." 

"  Dr.  Eugene  !  Oh,  is  it  true  ?  Can  she  tell 
us " 

"  Hush,  my  dear  !  She  has  told  me  something,  cer- 
tainly— something  of  which,  fool  as  I  was,  I  never 
dreamed.  She  shall  say  for  herself  what  she  knows. 
Come  in,  nurse.  Will  you  kindly  tell  Miss  Arnold  and 
Miss  Daunay  what  you  know  concerning  the  child  that 
you  gave  me  eighteen  years  ago  to  carry  to  its  aunt, 
who  was  awaiting  it  outside  Daunay's  Tower  ?  " 

Annabel  caught  her  breath.  He  had  called  her  "  Mis.s 
Daunay,"  and  yet  John  Daunay's  child,  according  to 
the  parish  register,  lay  buried  with  its  mother  in  the 
green  churchyard  of  St.  Andrew's-on-the-IIill  ! 

Miss  Arnold  sat  erect,  a  red  spot  of  excitement  on  her 
cheek,  her  eyes  gleaming  with  an  eager  light.  The 
doctor  laid  his  finger  quietly  on  her  pulse,  and  signed 


Nurse  Lynch.  357 

to  Annabel  to  place  a  cordial  ready  to  his  hand.  Then 
the  old  nurse  came  hurriedly  back  into  the  room. 

"  Dear  me  ! "  she  said.  "  To  think  that  this  sweet 
young  lady  is  the  baby  that  I  took  from  Mrs.  Daunay's 
breast  when  the  poor  thing  lay  dying  !  Yes,  indeed, 
missy,  it  was  Mrs.  Dannay's  little  girl  that  I  wrapped 
up  and  gave  to  the  doctor  when  he  came  and  told  me 
that  her  aunt  had  come  for  her  ;  though  I  did  think 
it  was  a  dreadful  thing  that  she  should  be  carried  out 
into  the  night  air  when  she  was  but  a  few  days  old  !  But 
it  was  Mr.  Daunay's  orders,  and  it  had  to  be  done ;  and 
well  I  know,  Miss,  that  the  baby  given  over  to  Miss 
Arnold — this  lady  here — was  Mrs.  Daunay's  child,  for 
I  was  there  when  she  was  born,  and  I  remember  a  little 
mark  that  she  has  still — a  freckle  or  a  little  mole,  my 
dear,  on  the  right  shoulder — for  I  said  to  the  doctor  at 
the  time,  '  Why,  I  should  know  that  baby  anywhere, 
because  of  the  mark  it's  got." 

"  Yes/'  said  Annabel,  blushing.  She  had  often  been 
vexed  at  that  tiny  speck  upon  the  whiteness  of  her 
skin. 

"  Then  how  was  it  ?  how  did  it  happen,"  said  Jane 
Arnold,  "  that  there  should  have  been  a  child  buried 
with  Betha  at  St.  Andrew's-on-the-Hill  ?" 

"  Bless  you,  ma'am/' said  Nurse  Lynch,  with  much 
composure,  "  and  did  you  none  of  you  never  think  of 
twins  f  " 


358  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

DANGEB   AHEAD  ! 

"  TWINS  yon  were/'  said  Nurse  Lynch,  addressing 
herself  to  Annabel,  "  and  as  pretty  a  pair  of  little  girls 
as  ever  I  saw  in  my  life,  although  your  papa  did  growl 
and  grumble  at  neither  of  you  being  a  boy.  But,  as  I 
told  him,  he  might  live  to  be  thankful  for  a  girl." 

"  It  was  my  little  sister,  then,  who  was  buried  at  St. 
Audrew's-on-the-Hill  ?  " 

"  Yes,  dearie,  it  was,  and  Annabel,  like  yourself,  she 
was  called  ;  for,  when  he  saw  that  she  was  going,  which 
she  did  in  less  than  an  hour  after  her  birth,  the  doctor 
baptized  her  himself  all  in  a  hurry — the  doctor  from 
Carlisle.  And  Mr,  Daunay  standing  by,  when  asked 
what  she  should  be  called,  said  '  Annabel/  and  Anna- 
bel was  her  name. " 

"  It  would  have  saved  some  trouble  if  you  had  told 
me  that  there  were  twins,  nurse,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere. 

"  Well,  sir,  how  was  I  to  know  that  Mr.  Daunay 
hadn't  told  you  ?  You  see,  miss,  poor  Mrs.  Daunay 
died  suddenly,  of  collapse,  and  Dr.  Lechmere  hud  only 
seen  her  once  living,  and  nothing  was  said  about  the 
poor  children  until  Mr.  Daunay  sent  for  his  wife's 
sister — which  was  yourself,  was  it  not,  ma'am  ?  And 
Dr.  Lechmere,  being  young,  and  only  called  in  acci- 
dentally, so  to  speak,  I  suppose  Mr.  Daunay  did  not 
think  of  mentioning  to  him  that  there  was  a  child  who 
had  died  as  well  as  one  that  had  lived." 


Danger  Ah< 

"  They  were  buried  togethe1 
baby,  either,"  said  Miss  Arnol< 
doctor,  to  look  at  ray  sister's 

"  The   baby  had   been   al 
mother   died,"  said   Nurse 
were  buried  in  the  same  gra" 
to  Carlisle  before  the  funera. 
that  much.     He  said  to  me 
about  his  marriage,  and  he 
about,  and  he  would  pay  me  . 
but  I  said  to  him,  '  Sir,  I'll  ti 
you  please,  and  nothing  more. 
And  he  went  off,  looking  rather  gn. 
sent  me  the  right  money,  through  tht 
lisle,  and  I  never  saw  his  face  again." 

"  To-morrow,"  said   Lechmere,   quietly, 
ask  you  to  repeat  this  story  to  Annabel 'srelativ-. 
may  have  trouble  yet,  but  I  think  now  that  we 
win  the  day.'' 

The  half-suppressed  exultation  in  his  eye  and  voice 
made  Annabel  tremble,  she  knew  not  why.  And  when 
the  doctor  had  gone,  the  old  nurse  looked  after  him 
with  rather  a  strange  expression,  and  said — 

"  It  seems  to  me  as  if  the  doctor  vverena  just  himself, 
Miss  Annabel.  If  I  knew  him  a  gey  bit  better  I  should 
say  that  he  was /<?#." 

"  Fey  !  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Annabel,  although  in 
her  heart  she  knew. 

"  It's  when  folks  are  too  gay,  too  triumphant,  too 
lifted  above  themselves  !  See  the  light  in  his  een,  and 
the  blitheness  of  his  face  " — as  the  doctor  waved  them 
a  farewell  from  the  gate  ;  "  it's  no  canny  when  folk  are 
so  awful  pleased  with  themselves." 


ay's  Tower. 

*   pleased  with  himself  ;  he  is 
^overy,"  said  Annabel, 
is  he,  lassie  ? — Miss  Dauuay, 
t's  a  relation,  as  the  English 
;rs  ?  " 

has  been  a  guardian  to  me, 

ell,  through  all  these  years." 

id  the  old  woman,  thought- 

rst  this  afternoon,  I  thought 

1  careworn  ;  but  since  I  told 

like  a  young  lad  with  that 

/   they  used  to  glint  with  anger 

Onteen  years  ago  !" 

with  anger  at  your  father,  if  the  truth 
.    Your  father  did  not  care  for  girl  chil- 
.  told  you,  and  he  would  not  look  at  you  when 
ore  born." 

••  Hush  ! "  said  Annabel,  in  a  low  voice.  "  It  dis- 
tresses my  aunt.  It  will  be  better  if  we  do  not  talk 
just  now.  I  will  go  down-stairs  for  a  little  while,  and 
come  back  by  and  by." 

She  slipped  away,  not  sorry,  for  her  own  sake,  to  be 
alone  ;  and  after  a  time  she  came  up  to  her  aunt's  room 
and  sat  by  the  bedside,  while  Nurse  Lynch  went  down- 
stairs.    Miss  Arnold  lay  very  still,  but  presently  she  put 
out  her  hand,  and  Annabel  took  it  gently  in  her  own. 
"Annabel,  my  niece." 
"  Yes,  auntie  dear." 

"  So  you  are  my  niece — my  Betha's  daughter,  after 
all,  thank  God." 

"  Yes,  auntie,  thank  God.  I  am  so  glad  that  I  be- 
long to  you." 


Danger  Ahead  !  361 

"  I  always  felt  that  you  did,  my  dear ;  I  never  be- 
lieved that  you  could  be  anything  but  my  own  kith  and 
kin.  I  am  very  thankful  to  know  the  truth — before  I 
die." 

' 'Yes,  auntie/' 

"Annabel,  you  will  be  a  rich  woman  now." 

The  girl's  hand  tightened  on  that  of  her  aunt.  She 
could  not  speak. 

'•Aye,"  Jane  Arnold  continued  ;  "you  will  have  to 
turn  that  lad  out  of  the  house  which  he  thinks  is  his 
own.  It  may  be  hard  for  him,  but  you've  got  to  do  it, 
Annabel.  It  won't  be  justice  to  your  dead  father  un- 
less you  do,  and  he'll  have  a  sin  to  answer  for  which 
you  will  have  caused  him  to  commit." 

"  I'll  try  to  do  my  duty,  Aunt  Jane." 

"  But  you  will  be  able  to  be  generous.  You'll  be 
generous  and  kind  to  that  poor  lad  that  loves  you,  An- 
nabel." 

"  Does  he  love  me,  auntie  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  he  does ;  and  although  he's  but  a 
boy  now,  and  has  his  ups  and  downs,  yet  he's  a  gallant 
gentleman  at  heart,  and  he'll  make  you  a  good  husband 
by  and  by.  Promise  me  that  you  will  be  good  to  him, 
Annabel." 

"  I  will  be  good  to  him,  but  I  will  not  promise  to 
marry  him,  Aunt  Jane.  Not  yet — at  least." 

Her  voice  faltered  a  little.  It  told  its  own  tale  to 
the  woman  who  was  so  near  the  other  world  that  she 
could  see  clear  in  this. 

"  You  love  him,  dear  ;  yes,  you  love  him,  though 
maybe  you  hardly  know  it  yet.  By  and  by,  you  will 
find  it  out.  And  then  may  God  bless  you,  and  make 
you  a  happy  wife  and  mother — happier  than  I  have  ever 


362  Daunay's  Tower. 

been,  Annabel,  or  than  even  your  mother  was  in  her 
married  days.  I  used  to  think  John  Daunay  had  a  kind 
heart  when  you  could  get  to  it ;  but  it  was  sore  over- 
laid." 

Annabel  kept  silence.  She  almost  fancied  that  her 
aunt's  mind  wandered  when  she  talked  much,  and  there 
was  a  touch  of  wilduess  just  then  in  Jane  Arnold's  tone. 
She  knew  the  way  to  quiet  her,  however.  "  Shall  1  say 
our  prayer,  auntie  ?  "  she  asked  ;  and  then,  without 
another  word,  she  began  the  Lord's  Prayer.  She  had 
said  it  every  night  with  her  aunt  since  the  days  of  her 
babyhood. 

Miss  Arnold  lay  in  silence,  with  her  eyes  closed. 
Only  at  one  point  did  she  join  the  petitions.  When 
Annabel  came  to  the  clause,  "  Forgive  us  our  tres- 
passes, as  we  forgive  those  who  trespass  against  us," 
Jane  Arnold  repeated  the  words  in  a  peculiarly  loud 
and  distinct  voice.  Then  she  relapsed  into  silence, 
perhaps  into  sleep  ;  but  the  sleep  was  soon  merged  in 
an  insensibility  from  which  she  never  woke  again.  For 
a  day  or  two  she  lay  in  this  state  of  stupor.  Annabel 
and  the  nurse  never  left  her  side  ;  the  doctor  came  as 
often  as  his  duties  would  permit  him,  but  he  could  do 
nothing  for  her.  They  could  but  wait  for  the  inevi- 
table end. 

It  came  at  last,  much  as  they  had  expected  it  to  come. 
They  did  not  know  exactly  when  life  was  extinct.  She 
died  quietly,  peacefully ;  and  Annabel  felt  herself  in- 
deed alone  in  the  world. 

It  added  to  her  trouble  of  heart  that  even  in  those 
sad  moments  she  was  not  left  altogether  free  from 
lawyers'  letters  and  other  reminders  of  the  strange  posi- 
tion in  which  she  stood.  But,  by  Eugene  Lechmere's 


Danger  Ahead  !  363 

advice,  the  new  piece  of  information  which  they  had 
acquired  was  conveyed  to  Mr.  Clissold  under  promise 
of  secrecy.  Until  Miss  Arnold's  funeral  was  over  it  was 
decreed  that  no  one  else  should  hear  of  Nurse  Lynch's 
existence  ;  and  she  was  indeed  particularly  anxious  that 
Jocelyn  should  not  know.  "  Do  let  him  come  to  my 
aunt's  funeral  before  you  tell  him,"  Annabel  had  said, 
rather  piteously.  "  I  should  like  him  to  stand  beside 
me  at  her  grave." 

He  stood  beside  her  when  the  moment  came,  with 
Eugene  Lechmere  on  her  other  hand.  She  was  vaguely 
comforted  by  their  presence,  although  she  could  not 
have  said  how  or  why.  And  then  she  went  back  to  the 
old  farmhouse,  which  seemed  to  have  become  so  deso- 
late all  at  once  ;  although  Miss  Daunay  begged  her 
most  sincerely  and  earnestly  to  sleep  at  the  Tower  in- 
stead of  returning  to  the  Moorside  Farm. 

"  It  is  not  right  for  you  to  be  there  all  alone,"  she 
said. 

"  My  aunt  was  not  much  of  a  protection,  but  I  have 
been  with  her  there  for  years,"  said  Annabel.  "  Be- 
sides, I  have  Nurse  Lynch  with  me.  She  is  going  to 
stay  several  days  longer,  until  I  can  make  arrange- 
ments." 

Edith  glanced  at  the  motherly-looking  nurse  who 
hovered  in  the  background,  and  decided  that  perhaps 
Annabel  would  be  more  comfortable  with  this  homely 
person  than  with  themselves.  She  had  by  no  means 
brought  herself  to  realize  that  this  friendless,  penniless 
girl,  as  she  considered  her,  was  destined  by  Jocelyn  to 
be  her  sister-in-law. 

"  Take  care  of  her,  nurse,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere,  before 
he  left  the  house,  for  he  came  back  with  Annabel  to 


364  Daunay's  Tower. 

the  farm  before  returning  home.  "  She  does  not  look 
very  well  to-night  ;  she  had  better  rest  as  much  as  pos- 
sible." 

"  Yes,  sir,  so  she  had.  I  shall  just  put  her  to  bed 
with  a  good  hot  milk-posset ;  that  is  the  best  thing  for 
her.  And  you'll  be  round  to-morrow,  sir,  to  look  at 
her  again  ?  " 

"  I  will.  To-morrow,  nurse,  I  think  you  will  be- 
called  upon  to  tell  your  story  to  Mr.  Daunay,  and  to 
Mr.  Clissold,  who  is  coming  from  London  purposely  to 
hear  it." 

"Very  well,  doctor ;  they'll  find  me  ready,"  said 
Nurse  Lynch,  with  the  cheerfulness  of  a  person  who  is 
prepared  to  fight  for  the  truth.  "  I'll  let  'em  know." 

She  went  back  to  Annabel  and  tried  to  induce  her 
to  lie  down  ;  but  Annabel  was  curiously  restless.  It 
seemed  as  though  she  could  not  keep  still.  She  went 
from  room  to  room,  up  and  down-stairs  and  through  the 
passages,  until  she  made  Nurse  Lynch  quite  nervous, 
although  that  experienced  person  had  often  seen  the 
restlessness  of  grief.  And  even  when  night  came  on 
Annabel  refused  to  go  to  bed,  or  to  let  the  house  be 
shut  up.  "  Not  yet,"  she  said.  "  It  is  so  fine,  so  tran- 
quil, nurse.  I  like  to  look  at  the  sky  and  think  of  my 
mother  and  my  aunt.  Do  you  suppose  they  have  met 
and  are  looking  at  me  now — praying  for  me,  perhsips  ?  " 

"  Bless  you,  Miss  Annabel  dear,  don't  talk  like  that 
of  the  dead.  Whether  they  can  see  us  or  not  we  have 
never  been  told  ;  we  only  know  that  God  takes  care  of 
His  own  elect." 

And  there  was  a  doctrinal  flavor  about  Nurse 
Lynch's  reply  which  had  the  effect  of  silencing  Annabel. 

"  I'm  just  going  across  the  yard,"  said  the  girl,  after 


Danger  Ahead  !  365 

a  time,  "  to  speak  to  Caesar."  Caesar  was  the  great 
house-dog,  which  had  been  chained  np  all  day.  "  Do 
you  hear  him  howling  ?  I  don't  like  to  hear  him  howl 
and  bark  like  that.  I  will  go  and  speak  to  him  and  let 
him  loose.  It  is  safer  to  let  him  loose  at  night." 

"But  you  won't  go  out  into  the  yard  at  this  time  of 
night,  my  dear  !  You'll  catch  your  death  of  cold." 

"  Oh,  no.  I  always  go  out  last  thing  and  let  Caesar 
loose,"  said  Annabel.  "  It's  the  thing  we  have  always 
done,  just  before  we  shut  up  the  house.  And  we  are 
early  to-night." 

The  servants  had  already  gone  to  bed.  Annabel  and 
the  nurse  had  been  sitting  for  company  in  the  fine  old 
rafted  kitchen  which  Eugene  had  once  admired  and 
called  so  picturesque.  With  the  play  of  the  flames  re- 
flected on  the  black  oak  of  the  furniture  and  the  shin- 
ing dish-covers  upon  the  walls,  the  room  looked  more 
picturesque  than  ever.  Annabel  looked  back  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  buxom  figure  of  Nurse  Lynch,  half  slum- 
bering on  the  settle,  and  felt  that  the  very  beauty  of 
the  old  place  gave  her  a  pang.  For  she  would  have  to 
leave  it  all  too  soon,  and  make  her  entry  on  a  new  and 
fur  less  beautiful  world. 

She  had  left  the  outer  door  slightly  ajar,  and  the 
candle  on  the  center  table  flickered  in  the  draught. 
Nurse  Lynch,  tired  with  the  exertions  of  the  last  few 
days,  dozed  lightly  at  first,  and  then  fell  into  a  deeper 
slumber.  If  there  was  any  sound  outside,  she  did  not 
hear  it  ;  her  sleep  was  of  the  heaviest  when  she  resigned 
herself  to  it  at  all.  And  she  had  a  vague  impression 
that  Annabel  was  coming  back  to  wake  her  presently  ; 
so  she  could  sleep  quite  peacefully  until  the  girl  re- 
turned. The  draught  blew  the  door  a  little  wider  open, 


366  Daunay's  Tower. 

and  the  candle  flickered  more  than  ever,  and  flickered 
at  last  into  nothing,  so  that,  as  the  fire  went  down,  the 
room  was  almost  dark,  and  the  nurse  could  sleep 
almost  as  profoundly  as  if  she  had  been  in  her  comfort- 
able bed.  But  Annabel  did  not  come  back. 

And  the  first  thing  Nurse  Lynch  knew  was  that  the 
was  awaking  all  in  a  fright,  from  some  dreadful  dream, 
and  that  there  was  a  great  light  in  the  room,  and  that 
Dr.  Lechmere  stood  before  her,  crying  out — 

"  Where  is  Annabel  ?  Wake  up,  nurse,  and  tell  me, 
for  God's  sake,  what  are  yon  doing  here  at  this  hour, 
and  where  is  Annabel  ?  " 

Nurse  Lynch  staggered  to  her  feet,  and  gazed  round 
her  in  dismay.  "  Isn't  she  back  ?  She  went  to  let  the 
dog  loose  at  nine  o'clock " 

"And  now  it  is  midnight,"  said  Eugene.  "Caesar 
lies  dead  in  the  outhouse,  and  I  have  reason  to  think 
that  some  terrible  harm  has  come  to  Annabel." 


The  Treachery  of  Lenore.  367 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

THE  TREACHERY    OF   LENORE. 

DR.  LECHMERE  paid  a  few  professional  visits  when 
he  had  left  Annabel  at  the  Moorside  Farm  with  Nurse 
Lynch,  and  then  went  quietly  home  to  his  house,  and 
consumed  the  plain  and  rather  ill-cooked  dinner  which 
Mrs.  Beccles  set  before  him.  The  keen  air  and  the  ex- 
ertions of  the  day  had,  however,  given  him  a  healthy 
appetite.  He  had  seen  Jane  Arnold  laid  to  rest,  and 
he  had  sympathized  very  keenly  with  Annabel  in  her 
grief  ;  nevertheless,  man  must  eat  to  live,  and  Timothy 
was  disappointed  to  find  that  a  smaller  portion  than 
usual  fell  to  his  share. 

"  Never  mind,  old  chap,  you  shall  have  a  special 
slice,"  said  his  master,  observing  the  angry  jerk  of 
Timothy's  stumpy  tail.  "I  won't  be  so  greedy  as  to 
eat  it  all  and  give  you  none."  And  Timothy's  anger, 
together  with  his  appetite,  was  appeased. 

"  I  wonder  how  that  poor  child  is  getting  on,"  was 
the  doctor's  reflection,  as  he  turned  his  chair  round  to 
the  fire.  "I  hope  Lynch  will  make  her  go  to  bed 
early;  but,  comfortable  old  soul,  I  don't  think  she  has 
much  moral  firmness.  The  trained  hospital  nurse 
whom  poor  Jane  Arnold  used  to  dread,  would  have  been 
a  much  more  useful  companion  for  Annabel — though 
not  so  soothing,  probably.  I  will  go  up  there  in  good 
time  to-morrow,  and  see  how  she  is  getting  on," 


368  Daunay's  Tower. 

He  tried  to  settle  down  to  his  books,  but  a  restless- 
ness was  upon  him  which  matched — if  he  had  known 
it — that  of  Annabel.  He  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  floor  of  his  study,  much  to  Timothy's  annoyance; 
he  went  out  into  the  garden  behind  the  house  and 
looked  up  at  the  hill,  trying  to  make  out  the  glimmer 
of  light  which  he  had  sometimes  identified  as  belonging 
to  the  old  farmhouse.  But  he  could  see  nothing  ; 
everything  was  dark  and  still.  He  came  through  the 
house  again,  and  opened  the  front-door.  The  street 
also  was  very  still,  nearly  every  one  belonging  to  High 
Bigg  had  gone  to  bed  by  this  time  ;  the  only  thing  he 
could  hear  was  the  rushing  sound  of  the  little  river, 
swollen  between  its  banks  by  the  recent  rains. 

Yet,  surely  there  was  a  footstep.  Some  one  was 
coming  down  the  street  ;  two  persons,  in  fact.  He 
waited  to  see  them  go  by.  It  might  be  that  they  had 
come  to  summon  him  to  some  sick-bed.  He  would  just 
stay  and  see.  And  then  the  light  of  a  lamp  fell  full 
upon  the  face  of  one  of  the  two  women,  and  he  uttered 
a  startled  exclamation  underneath  his  breath,  for  he 
saw  the  face  of  his  sister  Lenore.  The  woman  with 
her  was  her  maid.  They  had  both  seen  the  doctor  ;  it 
was  too  late  for  Eugene  to  draw  back. 

"  Oh,  Dr.  Lech  mere  !  "  said  Lenore.  Even  at  that 
moment  he  could  not  but  admire  her  power  of  resource. 
She  had  not  wanted,  she  had  not  in  the  least  expected, 
to  see  him  ;  but  she  never  lost  her  self-possession  for 
very  long.  She  had  at  once  a  story  ready  ;  but  he  did 
not  believe  that  it  was  true.  "  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  I 
was  hesitating  as  to  whether  I  would  knock  you  up. 
I  have  been  to  see  an  old  friend  of  mine  at  the  Dan  nay 
Arms ;  Abbott  is  with  me,  you  see,  to  take  care  of  me. 


The  Treachery  of  Lenore.  369 

My  friend  is  ill,  and  I  have  been  trying  so  hard  to  in- 
duce him  to  send  for  you." 

"  Who  was  your  friend,  may  I  ask  ?"  said  Lechmere, 
coldly. 

"  Well,  as  he  will  not  see  yon,  it  is  useless  for  me  to 
give  his  name."  said  Lenore,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  But 
I  should  like  to  step  in  just  for  a  moment,  to  tell  you 
about  the  case." 

Eugene  understood — she  really  wanted  to  see  him 
alone,  and  he  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass. 

"'Abbott  can  wait  in  /he  hall,"  she  began  ;  but  he 
interrupted  her — 

"  Abbott  can  go  back  to  the  Tower ;  I  will  walk 
home  with  Mrs.  Wycherly  myself." 

Lenore  looked  startled,  Abbott,  unwilling  ;  but 
after  a  moment's  hesitation,  the  mistress  glanced  at 
the  maid  arid  said  sweetly — 

"  That  will  be  delightful.  Run  on,  Abbott.  It  is 
not  dark,  and  surely  you  are  old  enough  to  take  care 
of  yourself." 

The  maid  tossed  her  head,  but  said,  "  Very  well, 
ma'am,"  in  a  tone  of  sulky  submission,  and  moved 
away. 

"  Thank  Heaven  I  have  got  rid  of  her  !  "  said  Le- 
nore, devoutly.  "  She  would  have  been  listening  at 
the  keyhole  half  the  time.  It  is  as  much  as  I  can  do 
to  preserve  my  character  at  all  when  she  is  about." 

"What  are  you  doing  out  of  doors  at  this  time  of 
night  ?  "  said  Eugene. 

"Come  into  your  den,  and  I  will  tell  you,  if  you  are 
good,"  said  his  sister.  "Your  woman  has  gone  to  bed, 
J  suppose  ?  We  are  quite  safe  here  ?" 

"Perfectly." 
24 


37°  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  What  a  good  fire  you  keep,  you  luxurious  man  ! 
And  what  a  nice  cat,  too  !  " — as  she  stroked  Timothy's 
gray  head.  "A  regular  old  bachelor,  are  you  not  ? 
I  have  been  calling  on  another  bachelor  too — my  friend 
at  the  Daunay  Arms." 

"  Who  was  it  ?  " 

"  Reynold,  of  course.  A  cousin,  almost  a  brother — 
no  worse  than  coming  to  see  you,  is  it  ?" 

"  Lenore,"  said  her  brother,  with  sudden  gravity, 
"  are  you  aware  what  sort  of  man  Reynold  Harding 
is?" 

"I  have  known  him  a  good  many  years,"  she  an- 
swered, laughing,  but  not  allowing  him  to  meet  her 
eyes. 

"  You  spoke  to  me  one  day  of  his  affection  for  Anna- 
bel— Annabel  Daunay,  as  I  may  safely  and  rightfully 
call  her  now.  Do  you  know  how  he  tried  to  insult  her 
a  little  while  ago  ?  Do  you  call  it  love  when  a  man 
acts  in  that  way  ?  Yet  you  said  to  me  that  he  wanted 
to  make  her  his  wife  ! " 

"  Oh,  he  will  not  think  of  making  her  his  wife  now," 
said  Mrs.  Wycherly.  "That  was  all  very  well  when 
we  thought  that  she  was  a  Daunay,  with  a  right  to  the 
property.  It  is  different  now." 

"  Yon  mean  that  he  thinks  he  may  make  love  to 
her  in  a  perfectly  irresponsible  manner,  without  being 
called  to  account  for  it  ?" 

"Well,  who  is  there  to  call  him  to  account  ?"  said 
Mrs.  Wycherly,  in  a  mocking  tone.  "  There  is  your- 
self, of  course  ;  but  you  are  no  match  for  Reynold  in 
physical  strength,  yon  know  ;  you  couldn't  thrash  him 
if  you  tried,  and  he  would  probably  kill  you  before  he 
had  done  with  you." 


The  Treachery  of  Lenore.  371 

"  There  are  other  ways  of  punishing  a  man  besides 
thrashing  him,"  said  Eugene,  frowning. 

"  There  is  Jocelyn,  of  course/'  Lenore  went  on,  as 
if  she  had  not  heard.  "  He  is  more  of  a  match  for 
Reynold  than  you  are.  But  even  he  has  not  Reynold's 
strength,  or  Reynold's  nerve.  No  ;  it  really  isn't  any 
use  to  bluster,  Eugene.  Of  course  it  is  very  easy  to  see 
that  you  are  more  than  half  in  love  with  the  girl,  but 
you  would  be  wise  to  refrain  from  quarreling  with 
Reynold  about  her." 

f<  I  have  done  that  already,  as  perhaps  you  know." 

"  Yes,  I  heard.  It  was  very  foolish  of  you,  and 
quite  absurd  on  the  girl's  part.  Why  should  she  ob- 
ject to  Reynold's  kissing  her  ?  Many  girls  of  that 
station  would  be  flattered." 

"  Of  what  station  ?  "What  station  do  you  mean  ? 
Annabel  has  been  proved  without  doubt  to  be  Anna- 
bel Daunay,  the  old  man's  daughter  and  heiress.  Mr. 
Clissold  is  coming  from  London  to-morrow  morning 
to  explain  the  matter  to  Jocelyn." 

"  Mr.  Clissold  believes  it  ?  "  said  Lenore,  staring. 

"  He  certainly  believes  it,  or  he  would  not  come  all 
the  way  from  London  to  say  so." 

' '  But,  Eugene  " — there  was  a  frightened  tone  now 
in  Mrs.  Wycherly's  voice — "  you  can't  be  in  earnest  ! 
There  have  been  so  many  ups  and  downs  in  this 
wretched  Daunay  business.  You  don't  mean  that  she 
will  have  all  the  property,  and  Jocelyn  nothing  ?  " 

"  I  do." 

"She  will  be  a  person  of  some  importance  ?" 

<(  Of  course.  They  will  probably  make  her  a  ward 
in  Chancery,  or  something  of  that  kind,  as  she  is  under 


372  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  And  if  anybody  ran  away  with  her,  or  did  any- 
thing to  her  against  her  will,  I  suppose  there  would  be 
a  frightful  row  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Wycherly. 

Eugene  looked  at  her  steadily  for  a  moment.  Then 
he  went  to  the  door  and  quietly  turned  the  key  in  the 
lock. 

"  You  knmv  something,''  he  said.  "  Tell  me  what 
it  is." 

"  Eugene,  how  can  you  be  so  foolish  ?  Why  have 
you  locked  the  door  ?  I  want  to  go.  Let  me  out  this 
moment,  Eugene." 

"  The  key  of  the  door  is  in  my  pocket,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  am  not  going  to  let  you  out  of  this  room  until 
yon  tell  me  what  was  in  your  mind  when  you  asked 
these  questions." 

"  Nothing  was  in  my  mind — nothing  definite. 
Eugene,  do  let  me  go  !  I  have  something  special  to 
do— a  message  to  send.  You  don't  know  what  harm 
may  come  of  it  if  you  don't  let  me  go." 

"  What  harm  may  come  of  it  ?  What  message  do 
you  wish  to  send,  and  to  whom  ?  " 

"  Give  me  the  key." 

She  fell  upon  him,  and  struggled  madly  for  a  minute 
or  two  to%get  at  the  pocket  which  contained  the  key. 
But  he  was  easily  able  to  master  her.  When  he  held 
her  firmly  by  the  wrists  she  ceased  to  struggle,  and 
stood  before  him  panting,  with  tears  of  rage  in  her 
eyes.  Timothy,  aghast  at  this  unseemly  contest,  had 
sought  refuge  on  the  highest  bookshelf  within  his  reach, 
and  sat  there,  spitting  defiance  at  his  master's  enemy. 

"  Lenore,"  said  her  brother,  quietly,  "  I  know  your 
face  quite  well  enough  to  be  certain  that  there  is  some- 
thing of  which  you  are  ashamed.  You  may  well  be 


The  Treachery  of  Lenore.  373 

afraid,  too,  if  it  is  anything  that  concerns  Annabel 
Dan  nay's  safety,  for  she  will  be  avenged  if  any  wrong 
is  done  to  her." 

"  Nobody  will  do  her  any  wrong,"  she  said.  "  There 
is  nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about.  Let  me  go,  Eugene. 
You  are  hurting  me.  I  shall  be  black  and  blue  to- 
morrow." 

"  I  shall  not  let  you  go  until  you  have  told  me  the 
truth." 

"  You  were  always  cruel — you  always  loved  to  tor- 
ment me  !  Indeed,  it  is  nothing  to  tell." 

In  his  impatience,  Eugene  gave  her  hands  a  little 
shake.  "  Tell  me  at  once,"  he  said  impatiently. 
"  What  is  Reynold  Harding  proposing  to  do  with  re- 
spect to  Annabel  ?  " 

She  began  to  tremble  all  over,  and  turned  so  white 
that  he  knew  he  had  hit  upon  the  truth. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  he  said  sternly. 

"  It  is  only — to  give  her  a  fright — just  to  revenge 
himself  on  her  for  the  way  she  treated  him.  Nothing 
else." 

"  How  does  he  propose  to  frighten  her  ?  " 

"  He  knows  she  is  alone — almost  alone — in  the 
house.  He  has  inquired  about  her  habits,  and  he 
knows  exactly  what  she  does,  and  where  she  goes " 

"  Well  ?  " 

His  face  was  terrible  to  her,  and  although  he  now  re- 
leased her  hands,  she  buried  her  face  in  them  to  shut 
out  the  vision  of  those  flaming  eyes. 

"  Go  on,  Lenore." 

"  It  is  only  for  a  joke,  I  assure  you,  Eugene " 

"  Go  on." 

"  She  goes  out  every  night  to  unchain  the  dog — 


374  Daunay's  Tower. 

across  the  yard,  you  know,"  said  Lenore,  hurriedly. 
"  Well,  when  she  goes,  she  will  see  your  cart  at  the 
gate — it  is  a  conspicuous  object,  }rou  know,  with  its  red 
wheels,  so  the  joke  is  against  you  as  well  as  against  her 
— and  she  will  think  you  are  there,  and  will  come  out 
to  speak  to  you." 

"And  then  ?" 

"  Then — Reynold  and  his  man  mean  to  catch  her  up 
and  drive  her  off  to  Greystanes." 

"  Greystanes — where  Reynold  and  that  crew  have 
been  staying  ?  " 

"  They  are  gone  now.     Reynold  is  there  alone, 
believe  he  thinks  he  will  be  able  to  make  her  marry 
him,  if  he  compromises  her  in  this  way.     Everybody 
will  think  she  has  gone  off  with  him  willingly.     But  it 
is  only — a  kind — of  joke." 

"  Damn  all  such  jokes  ! "  said  Lechmere,  furiously. 
"  And  when  was  this  scheme  to  come  off  ?  " 

"  To-night." 

"  To-night  ! " 

His  blood  froze  in  his  veins.  What  would  happen  if 
Annabel  were  carried  off  in  this  way  against  her  will  ? 
He  knew  her  indomitable  spirit.  She  was  capable  of 
plunging  a  knife  into  Reynold's  heart  if  he  came  one 
step  nearer  to  her  than  she  chose. 

"  There  will  be  murder  done,"  he  said  hoarsely. 
"  And  yon — you  base  and  wicked  woman,  you  have 
connived  at  this  plot  !  If  Reynold  is  killed  to-night, 
his  blood  will  be  upon  your  head  !  Tell  me,  he  has 
taken  my  horse — my  cart  ?  " 

She  bowed  her  head. 

"  How  did  he  get  them  ?  " 

"  Through  me.     I  left  a  message  that  you  required 


The  Treachery  of  Lenore.  375 

them,  and  he  met  me  at  the  Daunay  Arms,  aiid  drove 
off — to  fetch  you  back  from  a  house  where  somebody 
was  ill.  There  was  no  difficulty  in  tricking  the  people 
at  the  inn.  They  think  '  the  gentry  '  can  do  no 
wrong." 

"  Then— he  has  gone  ?  " 

"  It  must  be — half  an  hour  ago." 

Eugene  sprang  to  the  door,  unlocked  it,  threw  it 
wide  open. 

"  If  you  want  to  repair  any  part  of  the  wrong  you 
have  done,"  he  said,  "  go  as  quickly  as  you  can  to 
Jocelyn  Daunay  and  tell  him  to  follow  me — on  horse- 
back— if  he  can,  up  to  the  Moorside  Farm.  Tell  him 
from  me  that  Annabel  is  in  danger." 

"  Oh,  Eugene,  I  can't,  I  can't  !  "  she  cried. 

"  You  must.  I  will  expose  you  if  you  don't.  I  will 
tell  the  world  the  whole  story.  Do  what  I  tell  you, 
and  then — never  let  me  see  your  face  again." 

She  shrank  from  him,  cowering  away,  as  if  afraid 
that  lie  would  strike  her  with  his  clenched  fist  ;  and 
he,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  sped  like  a  madman 
towards  the  stables  of  the  inn. 


376  Daunay's  Tower. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

VKNGEANCE. 

IT  was  the  work  of  a  moment  or  two  with  Eugene  to 
waken  a  sleepy  groom,  to  saddle  a  horse,  and  leave 
orders  that  the  groom  should  follow  with  another, 
while  a  third  was  to  be  left  for  Jocelyn  Daunay's  use. 
To  whom  the  animals  belonged,  lie  neither  knew  nor 
cared.  Mr.  Grier  always  had  two  or  three  good  horses 
in  reserve,  and  there  were  others  that  belonged  to  per- 
sons now  staying  at  the  inn.  Eugene  simply  took  the 
best. 

Away  he  went,  up  the  hard  high  road,  the  horse's 
hoofs  ringing  out  sharply  in  the  silence  of  the  night. 
There  was  a  great  horror  of  darkness  in  his  soul.  The 
woman  that  he  loved — in  danger,  in  terrible  alarm,  in 
need  of  help,  and  he  far  from  her,  unable  to  afford  her 
any  help. !  And  she  who  had  tried  to  bring  this  injury 
upon  Annabel  was  his  sister — his  sister  whom  he  had 
once  loved,  with  whom  he  had  played  when  she  was  a 
child  !  Was  there  any  justice  for  the  guilty,  any  mercy 
for  the  innocent,  in  all  the  wide  world  below  ? 

He  did  not  altogether  dare  to  face  the  possibilities  of 
that  night.  It  was,  of  course,  possible  that  Ileynold 
Harding  would  be  too  careful  of  his  own  fair  fame  to 
do  more  than  frighten  Annabel.  But  Eugene  knew 
him  to  be  a  man  of  violent  passions,  with  a  strongly 


Vengeance.  377 

vindictive  disposition  ;  and  he  might  go  great  lengths 
in  his  attempt  to  be  revenged  on  the  girl  who  had 
wounded  his  vanity.  Lenore's  suggestion  that  he  would 
attempt  to  force  her  to  marry  him  was  regarded  by 
Lechmere  merely  with  scorn.  If  Harding  had  known 
that  Annabel  was  the  heiress  of  Dannay's  Tower,  he 
might  perhaps  have  gone  that  length  ;  but  he  would 
never  take  so  much  trouble  with  an  obscure  little  peas- 
ant girl.  And  Annabel — with  her  pride  and  her  pu- 
rity !  If  Reynold  kissed  her  against  her  will,  Eugene 
believed  that  she  was  quite  capable,  in  a  moment  of  wild 
exaltation,  of  killing  him  in  return.  He  had  a  vision 
of  some  terrible  tragedy,  which  would  involve  her,  and 
all  connected  with  her,  in  ruin.  He — Eugene  Lech- 
mere — had  himself  felt  the  waters  of  shame  close  over 
him,  and  thought  that  he  should  never  raise  his  head 
again ;  but  he  was  a  man,  and  could  make  a  second 
start.  Imagine  Annabel  in  prison  garb,  working  out  a 
sentence  for  manslaughter  !  Involuntarily  he  laughed 
at  the  idea,  but  the  laugh  was  choked  by  something 
not  unlike  a  sob. 

After  a  time  he  was  almost  certain  that  he  heard  the 
tramp  of  horse's  feet  behind  him  on  the  road.  He 
dared  not  draw  rein  ;  he  had  no  time  to  spare,  but  he 
listened  with  all  his  ears.  Surely  Jocelyn  was  behind 
him  ;  Lenore  had  given  the  message,  and  he  was  com- 
ing as  fast  as  he  could  to  rescue  Annabel.  Eugene 
spurred  on  his  horse.  He  was  not  far  from  the  farm- 
house now  ;  he  had  passed  the  garden-gate  ;  he  had 
thrown  himself  from  the  saddle,  and  was  prepared  to 
batter  at  the  door,  when  his  eye  was  caught  by  a  thin 
streak  of  light,  creeping  out,  as  it  seemed,  from  the 
house  across  the  yard.  It  came  from  the  back  door. 


378  Daunay's  Tower. 

Eugene  went  towards  it,  found  it  open,  and  came  full 
upon  Nurse  Lynch,  fast  asleep  on  the  settle  beside  the 
dying  fire.  And  just  then  the  clock  struck  twelve. 

"  So  this  is  the  way  you  fulfil  your  trust  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Where  is  Annabel  ?" 

But  it  was  no  use  questioning  the  woman.  She  dis- 
solved into  tears,  and  stood  shaking  and  sobbing,  a 
monument  of  woe.  And  Eugene  went  out  again  into 
the  road,  and  while  he  hesitated  whether  to  search  the 
premises  further  or  to  proceed,  Jocelyn's  horse  was 
alongside  his  own,  and  Jocelyn's  voice  asked  him,  in 
startled  accents,  to  explain  the  danger  that  threatened 
Annabel. 

"Lenore — Mrs.  Wycherly — told  me  to  follow  you," 
he  said.  "  And  I  came — post  haste.  Tell  me  what  is 
wrong. " 

"I  will  tell  you  all  I  know,"  said  Eugene.  And  in 
as  few  words  as  possible  he  explained  the  situation. 

"  Lenore  said  they  had  driven  to  Greystanes.  We 
must  go  to  Greystanes  too." 

"  Are  you  armed  ?  "  said  Dr.  Lechmere. 

"  No.     I  never  thought " 

"  I  have  a  revolver.  Of  course,  I  shall  not  use  it  un- 
less I  am  obliged.  But  if  I  am  obliged,  I  shall  use  it 
without  scruple,  Jocelyn.  There  are  some  brutes 
whom  it  would  be  well  to  kill." 

They  rode  on  in  silence  after  these  words.  There 
was  no  time  for  speech.  Greystanes  was  three  miles 
away,  and  Dr.  Lechmere's  good  horse  had  had  an 
hour's  start. 

At  last  Dr.  Lechmere  began  to  ride  more  slowly. 
"  We  are  coming  near  the  house,"  he  said.  "  We  may 
have  to  dismount  presently." 


Vengeance.  379 

"  Wait,"  said  Jocelyn,  sharply.  "  What  do  you  see 
in  front  of  you  ?  Are  those  carriage-lamps  ?  They 
are  not  moving  :  there  has  been  an  accident." 

Eugene  spurred  forward.  As  Jocelyn  had  said,  two 
lamps  shone  like  eyes  in  the  distance.  As  they  ap- 
proached, they  saw  that  there  had  evidently  been  a  dis- 
aster of  some  kind.  The  cart  lay  overturned  against  a 
bank  which  rose  beside  the  road  ;  the  horse  had  fallen, 
and  was  struggling  helplessly  between  the  shafts. 
Mr.  Reynold  Harding  seemed  to  be  engaged  chiefly  in 
cursing  his  groom,  but  the  man  lay  as  helpless  as  the 
horse,  and  it  was  afterwards  found  that  he  had  broken 
a  leg.  And  Annabel  ? 

The  two  men  flung  themselves  down,  and  advanced 
boldly  to  the  rescue.  At  first  it  was  difficult  to  discern 
anything  clearly  ;  but  before  long  Eugene's  keen  eye 
caught  sight  of  something  light-colored  at  .the  side  of 
the  bunk.  It  was  Annabel,  in  a  dead  faint,  with  the 
blood  flowing  from  a  cut  on  the  forehead.  He  was  hor- 
rified to  find  that  she  had  been  gagged,  so  that  the 
danger  of  death  by  suffocation  in  the  accident  had  been 
great. 

"  You  can  tackle  my  cousin/'  he  said  sharply  to  Joc- 
elyn. "  I  must  look  after  Annabel." 

"  You  scoundrel  !  "  said  Jocelyn,  rushing  upon  Rey- 
nold. "  What  are  you  doing  to  her?  You  brute!" 
And  he  struck  him  in  the  face. 

To  his  surprise,  Reynold  only  stared  at  him  and  burst 
into  loud  and  insulting  laughter. 

"Oh,  it  is  you,  is  it,  my  good  boy?  And  who 
brought  you  on  the  scene,  you  and  your  precious  doc- 
tor ?  Did  Lenore  betray  us  ?  Just  the  sort  of  thing  a 
woman  is  apt  to  do." 


380  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  I'll  horsewhip  you  within  an  inch  of  your  life," 
said  Jocelyn,  who  was  almost  beside  himself  with 
anger. 

"  Oh  no,  you  won't,  because  you  can't,  my  good  fel- 
low. I'm  twice  as  strong  as  you  are,  and  I  don't  mind 
knocking  you  down  at  once  if  you  treat  me  to  any  more 
of  your  insolence.  You'd  better  exert  yourself  in  get- 
ting that  poor  beast  out  of  the  shafts,  and  finding  out 
whether  that  rascal  of  mine  has  hurt  himself  or  not. 
And  how's  the  lady  ?  " 

"  If  you  happen  to  have  any  brandy  with  you,"  said 
Eugene,  coolly,  "  you  had  better  hand  it  over.  It's  a 
great  wonder  that  Miss  Daunay  is  alive  at  all." 

"  Miss  Daunay  ?"  said  Harding,  recoiling  a  little. 
Then  he  recovered  himself,  and  with  a  shrug  of  his 
broad  shoulders,  produced  a  silver  spirit-flask,  and 
handed  it  to  Eugene,  who  touched  Annabel's  temples 
with  its  contents,  and  managed  to  pour  a  few  drops 
down  her  throat. 

"  Yes,  Miss  Daunay,"  said  Eugene,  grimly,  with 
his  eyes  still  fixed  upon  Annabel's  face,  where  a  very 
little  color  and  slight  flutter  of  the  eyelids  told  of  re- 
viving animation.  "  You  would  have  got  yourself  into 
a  good  deal  of  trouble  if  you  had  accomplished  your 
fine  purpose.  You  may  thank  your  stars  that  the  cart 
broke  down.  You  had  better  take  yourself  oft*  while 
you  can  ;  for  if  Daunay  and  I  tackle  you  between  us, 
I  don't  know  that  you  would  have  much  chance." 

"I shall  not  go  one  moment  sooner  than  I  choose," 
said  Reynold,  insolently.  "  What  are  you,  to  order 
me  about,  Eugene  Lechmere  ?  I  like  your  impudence. 
A  convicted  criminal,  a  man  who  has  served  his  time 
for  manslaughter — you  are  a  nice  person  to  come  for- 


Vengeance.  381 

ward  as  a  rescner  of  young  ladies  !  I  shall  have  to 
teach  you  a  lesson." 

"  It  is  more  likely  that  we  should  teach  you  one," 
said  Dr.  Lechmere,  savagely.  The  red  light  was  begin- 
ning to  burn  in  his  hazel  eyes.  "  Here,  Jocelyn,  come 
on.  Stand  by  me,  and  let  us  make  this  fellow  smart 
for  what  he  has  done." 

Annabel  had  now  raised  herself  to  a  sitting  posi^ 
tion,  and,  although  too  faint  to  speak,  could  yet  be 
left  with  safety.  Reynold  laughed  at  the  doctor's 
words,  but  was  somewhat  taken  by  surprise  when  both 
Jocelyn  and  Lechmere  sprang  at  him  and  seized  him 
by  the  arms,  rendering  him  for  the  moment  almost 
helpless. 

"  One  at  a  time.  This  isn't  fair  fighting,"  he  called 
out. 

"  We  are  not  fighting,"  said  Dr.  Lechmere.  "  It's 
not  a  fight — it's  not  a  fight  ;  it's  an  execution." 

There  was  a  moment's  struggle.  Reynold  struck 
out  right  and  left,  but,  although  Lenore  had  spoken 
contemptuously  of  her  brother's  strength  compared 
with  that  of  Reynold's,  Eugene  was  almost  a  match  for 
him,  and  with  Jocelyu's  assistance  soon  rendered  him 
perfectly  helpless.  Harding  was  almost  gigantic  in 
proportions,  but  he  was  heavy,  and  not  in  very  good 
condition,  while  Eugene  and  Jocelyn  were  both  wiry, 
alert,  and  in  excellent  training.  They  tied  his  hands 
and  feet  together,  and  laid  him  on  his  face  in  the  road. 

"  Shall  we  leave  him  here  ?  "  said  Eugene,  looking 
at  Jocelyn. 

"Oh,  give  him  something  to  remember,  first,"  said 
Jocelyn,  with  a  contemptuous  laugh.  "  Here's  the 
gig-whip." 


382  Daunay's  Tower. 

And  it  was  with  right  good- will  that  Lechmere  be- 
stowed some  very  vigorous  lashes  on  Harding's  quivering 
shoulders,  while  the  big  man  struggled  in  the  dust, 
shouting,  swearing,  finally  groaning  a  little,  and  ac- 
tually begging  for  mercy  before  Eugene  considered 
that  he  had  had  half  enough. 

It  was  Annabel  that  stopped  the  punishment.  "Oh, 
Dr.  Eugene,  please  don't  strike  him  any  more  ! 
Please  let  him  go  ! " 

"  He  deserves  it,  Annabel."  But  he  lowered  his 
hand,  and  gave  the  prostrate  body  of  his  foe  something 
like  a  contemptuous  kick.  "  There,  you  ruffian  !  "  he 
said.  "  You  have  not  had  half  as  much  as  you  deserve, 
but,  as  Miss  Daunay  intercedes  for  you,  I  will  let  you 
off  the  rest.  Here,  some  of  you  fellows  " — for  a  little 
company  of  grooms  and  hangers-on  at  the  Daunay 
Arms  had  now  clattered  up  to  the  rescue — "  you  can 
undo  this  man's  hands  and  feet,  and  let  him  go,  do  you 
hear  ?  And  remember  this,  Reynold  Harding,  that  if 
ever  you  come  near  High  Rigg  again,  or  molest  Miss 
Daunay  in  any  possible  way,  you  shall  have  as  warm 
a  greeting  as  you  have  had  to-day." 

He  walked  away  from  the  humiliated  Harding,  who 
had  now  struggled  to  his  feet.  Neither  Eugene  nor 
Jocelyn  took  any  further  notice  of  him.  Jocelyn  de- 
voted himself  to  Annabel,  while  Eugene,  with  some 
self-reproach  for  his  delay,  attended  to  the  hurts  of 
the  groom.  Harding,  after  sitting  for  a  little  while  on 
the  bank,  with  his  head  resting  on  his  hand,  got  up 
and  walked  away  into  the  darkness.  It  was  believed 
that  he  had  gone  to  Greystanes.  But  when  he  had 
walked  a  little  distance  he  took  a  swift  circuit  across 
the  grassy  hills,  and  came  up  with  the  people  who 


Vengeance.  383 

were  making  their  way  back  to  the  Moorside  Farm. 
They  were  walking  three  abreast,  Eugene  supporting 
Annabel  on  one  side,  Jocelyn  on  the  other  ;  and  they 
were  followed  by  other  persons,  carrying  the  groom 
with  the  broken  leg,  to  whom  Annabel  had  compas- 
sionately offered  a  room  in  the  farmhouse.  Harding 
walked  close  to  them,  treading  on  the  soft  grass. 
Once  he  came  so  near  that  Eugene  almost  saw  him, 
and  looked  fiercely  round. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Did  you  see  any  one  ?  " 

"  I  thought  I  saw  a  dark  figure  on  the  grass." 

"  I  can't  see  anything  moving,"  said  Jocelyn.  And 
no  wonder,  for  at  the  first  hint  of  danger  Harding  had 
thrown  himself  down  on  the  grass,  and  was  thus  per- 
fectly invisible. 

When  they  had  passed  on  he  rose  to  his  feet,  and 
fell  to  tracking  them  again,  but  this  time  with  more 
care.  The  stars  were  shining  faintly,  and  when  their 
light  fell  upon  his  face,  it  looked  like  a  distorted  mask, 
so  full  was  it  of  hatred  and  cruelty  and  bitterness. 
His  lips  were  drawn  back  from  the  strong  white  teeth  ; 
his  eyes  glittered  as  the  starlight  caught  them  now  and 
then. 

Something  else  glittered  too.  It  was  something  in 
his  hand — something  small  but  bright.  He  held  it 
out  of  sight  as  much  as  possible,  for  fear  some  passing 
gleam  might  betray  his  presence  and  the  weapon  that 
he  carried  in  his  hand.  His  moment  was  yet  to  come. 

"  If  you  are  strong  enough  to  walk  down  to  the  vil- 
lage, we  will  take  you  to  the  Tower  or  to  the  inn," 
Jocelyn  was  saying. 

"  Oh  no,  no.     I  shall  be  quite  safe  here." 


384  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  You  must  never  stay  a  night  here  again,  Anna- 
bel," said  Dr.  Lechmere.  "To-night  you  will  be  well 
guarded.  We  will  not  leave  you  ;  but  you  must  not 
spend  another  night  beneath  this  roof." 

They  had  reached  the  house  by  this  time,  and  as 
Annabel  passed  within  the  door  Harding  saw  her  turn 
to  Eugene  and  smile  as  she  gave  him  her  hand. 
"  Dear  Dr.  Eugene,  how  can  I  thank  you  ?  "  she  said  ; 
and  it  was  that  smile,  that  look  of  gratitude,  which 
sealed  the  doctor's  fate. 

For  as  he  turned  from  the  door  to  look  after  the  men 
who  were  bringing  the  groom  to  the  house,  Harding 
raised  his  glittering  little  revolver  to  the  level  of  his 
shoulder  and  fired.  He  was  a  good  shot  at  any  time, 
and  he  was  near  enough  to  take  correct  aim.  Tlie  re- 
port rang  out  like  thunder  on  the  silence  of  the  night, 
raising  the  echoes  of  the  hills  ;  and  Eugene  fell  with- 
out a  word,  and  lay  with  his  face  turned  up  to  the 
starry  sky,  while  the  red  blood  soaked  slowly  through 
his  clothes  into  the  cold  earth  on  which  he  lay.  Then 
Harding  threw  himself  down  on  the  grass  again,  and 
crept  swiftly  and  noiselessly  across  the  hillside  until  he 
could  gain  shelter  for  at  least  the  remainder  of  the 
night.  After  that  he  was  tolerably  safe,  for  pursuit 
had  already  passed  him  by. 

And  presently  Eugene  was  found  by  his  friends,  and 
lifted  up  and  carried  to  the  very  room  of  the  woman 
for  whom  he  would  have  counted  it  a  glory  and  an 
honor  to  die. 


For  Farewell.  385 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

FOR   FAREWELL. 

HE  struggled  back  to  consciousness  one  afternoon, 
to  find  Annabel  sitting  beside  him,  and  the  western 
sunshine  flooding  all  the  room  with  light.  He  could 
not  have  desired  anything  better,  he  said  to  himself, 
with  a  strange  feeling  of  satisfaction  ;  and  when  she 
turned  to  look  at  him  she  almost  wept  to  see  his  hazel 
eyes,  their  brilliant  light  departed,  fixed  dreamily  upon 
her  face  with  a  new  sweetness  in  their  depths. 

"So  they  brought  me  here  ?"  he  said,  with  surprise 
in  his  voice.  "  I  am  glad  of  that." 

"  Oh,  my  dear  Dr.  Eugene,  you  know  me  at  last  ?  " 
she  cried,  falling  on  her  knees  beside  his  bed. 

"  I  should  think  I  did,"  he  answered  ;  and,  in  spite 
of  his  weakness,  the  crisp  intonation  made  her  smile. 
"  I  must  have  been  pretty  bad  if  I  did  not  know  you, 
Annabel." 

"You  did  not  know  anybody  for  some  days,  dear 
Dr.  Eugene." 

"  And  have  you  been  my  nurse,  Annabel  ?  Am  I 
responsible  for  those  pale  cheeks  of  yours  ?  " 

"No,  we  have  had  a  professional  nurse.  Poor  Nurse 
Lynch  was  too  much  upset  to  be  any  good,  and  besides, 
I  don't  think  she  had  had  training  enough.  We  got 
one  from  the  hospital  at  Carlisle." 

"  Ah,  that's  right.  Then  I  shall  be  attended  to 
2; 


386  Daunay's  Tower. 

in  workmanlike  manner.  Doctors  are  the  worst  pa- 
tients in  the  world,  you  know.  What  doctor  have  you 
had?" 

Annabel  mentioned  his  name  with  some  hesitation. 
It  was  the  name  of  one  of  the  best  surgeons  in  England, 
summoned  from  London  to  give  his  opinion  on  the 
case.  There  was,  of  course,  a  local  doctor  also  in  at- 
tendance. 

"Oh,"  said  Lechmere,  thoughtfully,  "that  means 
I've  been  pretty  bad,  I  suppose  ?  And  pray,  who  sum- 
moned this  magnificent  person  on  my  account  ?  " 

"  It  is  one  of  the  few  good  points  of  my  new  position 
that  I  was  able  to  do  so  myself/'  said  Annabel.  "  Now, 
you  mustn't  talk  any  longer.  Go  to  sleep,  and  forget 
all  about  it,  or  the  nurse  will  scold  me  dreadfully."1 

He  smiled,  and  closed  his  eyes.  She  was  glad  to  see 
that  he  slept  almost  immediately  ;  his  weakness  was  so 
great  that  he  could  not  be  kept  too  quiet,  if  he  were 
to  survive  the  injury  at  all. 

Annabel  had  hopes — passionate  hopes — for  him. 
She  thought  of  trying  to  atone  to  him  for  all  that 
he  had  suffered,  of  making  the  later  years  of  his 
life  brighter  than  those  of  most  men.  so  as  to  make 
up  for  the  lurid  darkness  of  those  early  years.  It 
seemed  to  her,  as  she  sometimes  said,  "  only  fair  "  that 
he  should  have  a  chance  of  happiness.  And  for  the 
sake  of  the  great  service  that  he  had  done  her,  for  the 
sake,  also,  of  years  of  love  and  care  and  teaching,  she 
wanted  to  make  her  whole  life  a  sacrifice  to  him,  to 
give  him  all  the  new  wealth  and  property  that  she  was 
to  enjoy,  and  to  renounce  for  his  sake  all  the  ordinary 
joys  of  life.  There  was  a  sublime  pleasure  in  the  pros- 
pect. And  yet  she  sometimes  had  a  vision  of  Jocelyn's 


For  Farewell.  387 

pale,  reproachful  face  following  her  with  piteous  eyes, 
and  asking  if  he  were  quite  forgotten,  if  he  too,  were 
to  be  sacrificed. 

But  Eugene  did  not  seem  to  get  better,  after  all. 
He  rallied  a  little,  and  then  sank  back  again.  At  first 
he  did  not  realize  the  gravity  of  his  case  ;  but  after 
a  little  conversation  with  the  doctor  one  day  he  spoke 
to  Annabel  in  a  somewhat  different  strain. 

"  I  have  been  talking  to  old  Melville,"  he  said,  "  and 
he  has  told  me  the  exact  nature  of  the  injury.  Why, 
it's  ten  to  one  on  my  dying  of  it,  Annabel.  I  did  not 
know  that  it  was  so  serious  a  thing/' 

"  Many  people  get  better  of  far  worse  injuries  than 
that." 

"  Do  they,  wise  little  woman  ?  Well,  I  know  some- 
thing of  surgery,  you  see.  I've  an  impression  I  shan't 
get  better,  and  I'm  not  altogether  sorry." 

"Oh,  Dr.  Eugene  !  " 

"  Couldn't  you  drop  the  'doctor' — while  I'm  ill,  you 
know,  Annabel  ?  Call  me  Eugene  tout  court,  as  the 
French  say.  It  would  be  rather  pleasant  to  hear  the 
old  name  from  friendly  lips  again." 

"Eugene,  then.     You  must  get  better,  Eugene." 

"  Oh  no,"  he  said,  with  a  wistful  look.  "  I  think  I'd 
rather  not,  dear.  It's  about  time  I  ended  up.  I'm  a 
bad  failure,  you  know.  And  nobody  in  the  world  cares 
for  me  to  live — unless  it's  you." 

"  I  care,"  said  Annabel,  the  tears  welling  up  in  her 
eyes. 

"  Do  you  ?  That's  really  funny.  A  dear  little  girl 
like  yon  caring  fora  brute  like  me  !  You  should  send 
it  to  Punch,  dear;  call  it  'Beauty  and  the  Beast.'' 

"  Oh,  dear  Dr.  Eugene,  dear  Eugene,  don't  talk  in 


388  Daunay's  Tower. 

that  way  !  Don't  you  know  that  I  see  the  beauty  of 
your  life,  and  honor  yon  for  it,  and  that  we  shall  all 
be  the  poorer  if  you  die  ?  " 

He  was  silent  for  a  minute  or  two,  with  a  musing 
expression  on  his  face. 

"If  that  were  at  all  true,"  he  said,  "I  should  not 
be  so  very  sorry  that  I  had  lived.  Annabel,  did  you 
never  want  to  hear  the  whole  story  of  my  ruin  and 
disgrace  ?  " 

"No." 

"  My  dear,  you  are  too  good  to  live.  I  want  to  tell 
it  you." 

"  I  know  quite  enough." 

"Not  quite.  Besides "  He  made  a  long  stop, 

and  then  resumed,  in  a  much  lower  voice.  "There's 
an  old  man  in  Somersetshire,  Annabel,  who  almost 
broke  his  heart  over  an  unworthy  son  of  his.  lie  heard 
always  the  worst  of  this  son,  I  think  ;  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  a  certain  cousin  of  his — Reynold  Harding, 
by  name — used  to  malign  this  young  man  to  his 
father." 

"  So  I  should  expect ;  so  I  should  think,"  said 
Annabel.  "  But  I  did  not  know  that  Mr.  Harding  was 
any  relative  of  yours." 

"  Or  that  Mrs.  Wycherly  was  my  sister  ?  Well,  never 
mind  those  details  ;  they  will  be  clear  enough  to  you 
later  on.  You  see,  this  son  never  had  quite  a  fair 
chance  with  his  father,  and  yet  he  loved  his  father — 
mind  that,  Annabel  ! — he  loved  his  father  dearly  all 
the  time,  although  he  did  the  very  things  his  father 
hated  and  despised." 

"  Yes,  I  understand." 

"  He  was  rather  maddened  sometimes  by  the  misun- 


For  Farewell.  389 

derstanding  that  lie  met  with  from  his  own  family.  It 
wasn't  so  plain  then  as  it  seems  to  him  now  that  Reynold 
Harding  did  his  best  to  alienate  father  and  son.  So  he 
went  up  to  London,  and  made  up  his  mind  to  be  a  doc- 
tor. And  for  a  time  he  did  well  ;  he  passed  examina- 
tions mid  won  medals,  and  got  all  that  sort  of  distinc- 
tion, you  know.  I  might  have  been  as  big  a  man  as 
your  Sir  "William  if  I  had  kept  straight,  Annabel. 
AVilly  Duchesne  and  I  were  at  the  same  lectures,  and  I 
used  to  beat  him  easily." 

"  You  are  cleverer  than  any  man  I  know,"  said 
Annabel. 

"  Ah,  well,  your  acquaintance  with  men  is  limited, 
isn't  it,  dear  ?  Our  young  friend  got  into  bad  company. 
He  mixed  with  men  who  were  richer  than  he,  who 
gambled  and  betted  and  spent  money  on  trifles  in  a 
way  that  he  was  fool  enough  to  emulate.  The  conse- 
quence was  that  in  course  of  time  I  had  given  I.O.U/s 
for  several  hundreds  to  one  man — a  certain  James 
Gildersleeve,  as  evil  a  man  as  ever  I  knew.  That  was 
the  man,  Annabel,  that  I  killed,  and  they  said  I  did  it 
that  I  might  not  have  to  pay  my  debts  of  honor." 

"  That  was  absurd." 

"  Very  absurd,  wasn't  it  ?  But  the  whole  thing  was 
absurd.  Gildersleeve  and  1  had  joined  a  party  of 
friends  who  were  going  up  the  river.  We  got  involved 
in  a  boat  accident  in  a  lock  on  the  Thames.  Gilder- 
sleeve's  leg  was  injured,  and  he  became  insensible.  We 
got  him  to  an  inn,  and  there  I — I,  being  then  absolutely 
drunk  and  incapable,  for  I  will  not  mince  my  words, 
put  him  under  chloroform,  amputated  his  foot,  and 
then  let  him  absolutely  bleed  to  death  for  want  of 
proper  bandaging  and  attention.  The  amputation 


39°  Daunay's  Tower. 

was  said  afterwards  to  have  been  necessary,  but  the  rest 
was — sheer  madness." 

"  But  that  was  not  intentional  ?  " 

"  His  friends  said  that  it  was.  The  operation  had 
been  performed  so  neatly  that  nobody  could  believe  I 
was  drunk  when  I  did  it.  The  money  I  owed  him 
formed  a  motive — I  was  tried  for  manslaughter,  and  it 
was  by  the  nearest  shave  that  they  did  not  find  it  mur- 
der. I  was  sentenced  to  two  years'  imprisonment,  with 
hard  labor." 

"My  poor  Eugene  ! " 

"Oh,  that  was  not  the  worst  part  ;  I  was  rather  glad 
to  have  the  punishment  to  bear,  for  I  had  been  horribly 
to  blame.  If  I  had  not  been  drunk — ah  well,  I  need 
not  go  into  it.  I  sometimes  wonder  what  (iildt-rsleeve 
will  say  to  me  when  we  meet  on  the  other  side  of  the 
grave.  God  knows  that  if  there  was  anything  I  could 
do  for  him  or  bear  for  him,  I  would  be  glad  to  take  it 
upon  me  now." 

"  I  don't  suppose  God  has  let  him  suffer  through 
vour  fault,"  said  Annabel,  softly.  "  It  would  not  be 
fair." 

"  No,  it  wouldn't.  But  things  don't  always  seem, 
fair  in  this  life.  My  family  cast  me  off,  you  know, 
after  that  sentence.  Poor  old  Sir  John — that's  my 
father — he  was  dreadfully  cut  up  about  it.  He  would 
have  paid  anything  if  only  I  would  have  gone  to  the 
Colonies  ;  but  you  know  what  an  obstinate  fellow  I  havr 
always  been.  I  absolutely  refused  to  go.  I  would  live 
in  England.  I  said,  and  I  would  practise  medicine  in 
England,  let  all  the  Medical  Societies  say  what  they 
would.  And  I've  done  it,  in  spite  of  them  all." 

"And  done  well,  too." 


For  Farewell.  391 

"  Have  I  done  well,  Annabel  ?  That's  what  I  don't 
know.  But  I  should  like,  if  you  didn't  mind,  when  I 
am  dead,  if  you  would  write  to  the  old  man  and  tell 
him  that  I  did  earn  an  honest  living,  after  all,  and  that 
I  don't  think  anybody's  been  the  worse  for  me  for  the 
last  twenty  years  or  so." 

"  And  that  one  person,  at  least,  owes  you  everything 
that  she  values  in  this  life  !  "  said  Annabel,  with  her 
face  buried  in  the  bedclothes,  and  her  tears  overflowing 
upon  the  thin  hand  which  she  had  kissed  when  he  held 
it  out  for  her. 

"  You'll  tell  him  all  that,  will  you,  Annabel  ?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed  I  will.  Shall  I  send  for  him  now,  dear 
Eugene  ?  " 

A  wistful  look  came  into  the  sick  man's  eyes.  "  No, 
I  don't  think  so,  dear.  He  might  not  like  it,  and  you 
can  explain  to  him  so  much  better — afterwards.  You'll 
give  him  my  love  ?  " 

"  Oh,  but,  Eugene,  you  are  going  to  get  better  by 
and  by  !  And  then  you  will  go  and  see  him,  and  I  shall 
tell  him  everything  I  know — all  about  your  noble,  self- 
sacrificing  life  here,  and  the  way  in  which  you  are 
honored  and  respected — and  he  will  be  proud  of  you, 
after  all,  and  you  will  be  happy  once  again." 

Eugene  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  seem  to  see  it, 
somehow.  Xo,  my  dear.  There  would  be  endless 
difficulties,  and  I  am  awfully  tired.  You  must  do  your 
best  with  Sir  John,  and  the  rest  of  them,  and  I  shall 
rest  very  quietly  in  the  old  green  churchyard  among 
the  hills." 

"  Xo,  no,"  she  cried  ;  but  in  her  heart  she  knew  that 
he  must  die,  and  he  knew  it  too,  in  spite  of  her  pro- 
testation and  her  tears. 


392  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Tell  me,  Annabel,"  he  said.  "  I  am  much  older 
thau  you,  and  very  careworn,  and  much  stained  with 
the  sins  of  my  early  life,  but  do  you  think,  if  I  had 
lived,  that  it  would  have  been  possible  for  you  to  have 
cared  for  me  a  little,  to  have  loved  me  as  a  woman  does 
a  man  ?  " 

"  I  think  so,  Eugene." 

"  Then  I  die  happy,"  he  said,  and,  closing  his  eyes, 
said  no  more. 

Others  came  and  went.  Lenore  tried  hard  to  gain 
admittance  to  his  bedside  ;  and  for  one  moment  he  saw 
her  and  submitted  to  receive  her  frightened  kiss  and 
plea  for  forgiveness.  Of  Reynold  Harding  nothing  had 
been  heard.  Sir  William  Duchesne,  the  great  surgeon, 
traveled  down  on  purpose  and  without  charge  to  see 
his  old  friend,  of  whom  he  had  lost  sight  for  so  many 
years,  and  watched  a  whole  night  by  his  side. 

"  It  is  kind  of  yon,  Willy,"  said  Eugene,  with  his 
pleasant  smile. 

"  If  I  had  only  known  you  were  here,  Eugene,  I'd 
have  done  my  best  for  you  before  now  !  " 

"  It  doesn't  much  matter.  Perhaps  I  have  done  the 
best  for  myself,"  said  Lechmere,  with  his  wide,  tired 
gaze.  "  And  I'm  rather  glad  it's  all  done  with,  Willy, 
for  you  know,  as  the  parrot  said  in  the  story,  I've  had 
a  hell  of  a  time." 

The  great  surgeon  was  rather  shocked.  But  it  was 
to  his  credit  that  he  always  spoke  affectionately  of  his 
old  friend,  and  followed  him  ultimately  to  his  grave, 
which  was  where  Eugene  had  hoped  that  it  would  be 
— through  special  permission — in  the  almost  disused 
graveyard  of  St.  Andrew's-on-the-Hill. 

He  seemed  more  like  a  man  bent  on  a  journey  to  a 


For  Farewell.  393 

distant  land  than  one  to  whom  time  should  be  no  more. 
It  was  not  long  before  he  died  that  he  bent  a  penetrat- 
ing gaze  on  Annabel,  and  asked  her — 

"  "What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  life  when  I  am 
dead?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  answered  helplessly. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  forget — Jocelyn  ?  " 

"  Oh,  what  is  Jocelyn  to  me,"  she  said  with  passion, 
"  while  you  are  lying  here  ?  " 

"  Nevertheless,  Jocelyn  is  your  mate.  Your  love 
and  mine,  Annabel — I  may  speak  of  it  now — is  some- 
thing quite  removed  from  the  ordinary  love  of  husband 
and  wife.  You  must  not  Igt  it  stand  in  the  way  of 
your  affection  for  Jocelyn.  '  Love  seeketh  not  itself 
to  please/— you  remember  that  I  taught  you  those 
lines  ?  " 

"Yes,"  she  said  with  a  sigh,  remembering  also  that 
she  had  quoted  them  one  day  to  Jocelyn. 
I  "  Well,  you  must  practise  love  in  that  sense.-   You 
do  not  love  for  your  own  pleasure.      And  it  will  be  in- 
finitely for  Jocelyn's  good." 

"  How  can  any  one  be  to  me  what  you  have  been  ?  " 
cried  Annabel,  turning  her  eyes  to  the  wasted  face 
which  had  become  so  inexpressibly  dear. 

"  No  one  can  be,"  he  answered,  with  something  of 
his  old  brilliant  smile.  "  We  are,  in  one  sense,  vowed 
to  each  other  ;  we  belong  to  each  other,  you  and  I. 
But  you  must  love  Jocelyn  all  the  same." 

There  might  still  have  been  something  unfulfilled, 
something  imperfect  and  "scrappy  "  in  Annabel's  life, 
if  Eugene  had  not  turned  to  her  early  one  morning  with 
the  murmured  demand — 

"Kiss  me,  Annabel." 


394  Daunay's  Tower. 

For  the  first  and  only  time,  she  kissed  him  on  the 
lips,  in  token  of  farewell.  And,  before  the  sun  was 
high  in  the  heavens,  Eugene  Lechmere  had  breathed 
out  his  soul  to  God. 


The  End  Crowns  All.  395 


CHAPTER  XL. 

THE  END  CROWNS  ALL. 

So  the  tragedy  of  Eugene  Lechmere'slife  was  played 
out,  and  the  atonement,  so  far  as  he  could  make  it, 
was  made.  In  the  very  midst  of  her  sorrow  Annabel 
had  a  strong  conviction  that  it  was  the  better  thing  for 
him  to  go,  than  to  lead  for  many  years  the  some- 
what dreary  life  amongst  the  Cumberland  Fells,  which 
seemed  all  that  remained  to  him ;  but  even  she  was 
astonished,  when  it  came  to  the  last  moment,  to  find 
how  much  he  had  been  beloved,  and  to  soma  extent 
honored,  among  the  dalesfolk  for  miles  around.  He 
had  never  seemed  to  her  a  very  popular  man  in  his  life- 
time ;  his  brusque  ways  and  curt  manner  of  speaking 
tended  to  hold  off  any  manifestation  of  sympathy  or 
affection  that  others  might  have  felt  for  him.  But  that 
he  was  honored  in  his  death  there  could  be  no  doubt. 
From  far  and  near  men  and  women  flocked  to  his 
funeral.  And  not  only  were  the  poor,  for  whom  he 
had  done  so  much,  present,  but  the  greater  magnates 
of  the  neighborhood  chose  to  show  by  their  attendance 
the  respect  which  his  death,  if  not  his  life,  had  evoked. 

And  among  the  mourners  there  was  a  white-haired, 
hale  old  man  who  walked  behind  the  coffin  with  Anna- 
bel as  chief  mourner.  And  it  was  remarked  that  this 
was  some  strange  great  gentleman  whom  people  called 
Sir  John,  who  had  come  from  a  far  distance  to  be 
present  when  his  son,  so  long  disgraced  and  disavowed, 
was  laid  to  iv--t.  And  there  was  a  goodly  concourse  of 


396  Daunay's  Tower. 

doctors,  also,  who  laid  aside  their  animosity  to  the 
irregular  practitioner  among  them,  when  they  heard 
the  true  story  of  his  life  and  death,  which  Annabel  was 
not  slow,  by  means  of  her  friends,  to  make  known  ;  and 
the  great  surgeon  himself,  who  had  been  Eugene's 
fellow-stiulent  at  Guy's,  and  who  had  felt  just  a  little 
shocked  at  his  very  unconventional  way  of  expressing 
himself  so  shortly  before  his  death,  came  from  London 
to  stand  beside  his  old  friend's  grave. 

So  that  there  was  a  strange  sort  of  satisfaction  to 
Annabel  in  seeing  the  man  who  had  been  her  friend 
and  benefactor  borne  to  his  last  resting-place  with  such 
tokens  of  good-will.  The  loss  to  herself,  she  knew, 
could  never  be  made  up,  not  even  though  she  married 
Jocelyn,  as  Eugene  had  told  her  she  would  do  ;  not 
even  although  in  the  years  to  come  she  might  be  the 
center  of  a  large  circle  of  friends  and  kinsfolk,  with 
children  of  her  own,  perhaps,  growing  up  to  call  her 
blessed.  Never  in  all  her  life  could  she  lose  the  mem- 
ory of  that  dark,  keen,  vivid  face,  with  the  lips  that 
were  so  ready  for  a  mocking  word,  and  the  brilliant 
hazel  eyes  that  smiled  above  them,  and  which  softened 
into  such  intensity  of  tenderness  whenever  there  was 
weakness  to  cheer  or  suffering  to  relieve. 

But  for  the  moment,  and  for  some  weeks  afterwards, 
Annabel  was  dazed,  and  incapable  of  thinking  very 
coherently,  either  about  the  present  or  the  past.  As 
her  old  home  was  broken  up,  there  was  some  difficulty 
in  knowing  how  to  provide  for  her — not,  of  course,  as 
regarded  money,  she  was  wealthy  enough — but  as 
regarded  personal  comfort  and  companionship.  The 
person  who  at  last  came  forward  to  relieve  Mr.  Clissold 
of  what  he  felt  to  be  a  great  responsibility  was  no  other 


The  End  Crowns  All.  397 

than  Edith  Daunay.  She  had  no  fixed  occupation  in 
the  world,  and  Annabel  was  her  cousin  ;  there  could 
be  no  reason  for  supposing  that  she  and  Jocelyn  felt 
any  grudge  against  Annabel  for  depriving  them  of  what 
they  once  thought  to  be  their  due.  Jocelyn  was  back 
at  the  Foreign  Office,  working  harder,  perhaps,  than 
he  had  ever  worked  before,  and  was  only  too  anxious 
that  his  sister  should  be  of  use  to  Annabel.  So  the 
two  women  went  abroad  together,  and  lived  for  months 
in  sunny  places,  where  they  heard  very  little  of  what 
went  on  in  the  English  world  that  they  had  known  and 
loved,  and  where  every  beautiful  scene  or  noble  city 
was  doubly  endeared  to  Annabel  by  the  associations  of 
literature  and  art  which  Eugene  Lechmere  had  placed 
within  her  reach,  before  she  was  old  enough  or  wise 
enough  to  know  the  value  of  the  things  in  which  he  so 
patiently  instructed  her. 

Sir  John  Lechmere  did  not  live  long  after  Eugene's 
death.  He  was  an  old  man,  certainly,  but  he  had  been 
hale  and  hearty  until  that  day  when  he  learned  for  the 
first  time  the  story  of  his  son's  heroic  struggle  with  ad- 
verse circumstances,  and  something,  also,  of  the  base- 
ness of  which  his  daughter  had  been  guilty.  He  had 
been,  moreover,  rather  fond  of  Keynold  Harding,  and 
had  chosen  to  believe  him  far  superior  to  Eugene,  and 
the  story  of  that  terrible  night,  when  out  of  the  dark- 
ness he  had  aimed  at  Eugene  the  cowardly  shot  which 
ultimately  cost  the  doctor  his  life,  proved  too  much  for 
the  old  man's  spirit,  and  perhaps  for  his  heart.  He 
was  never  the  same  man  again,  his  friends  remarked. 
He  was  succeeded  by  his  eldest  son,  a  man  of  great  re- 
spectability, but  with  none  of  poor  Eugene's  brilliance, 
and  possessed  of  a  wife  who  so  cordially  disliked  Lenore 


398  Daunay's  Tower. 

that  there  was  very  little  chance  of  that  lady's  frequent 
appearance  in  the  home  of  her  forefathers.  But  this 
gave  Lenore  no  cause  for  regret ;  she  had  never  been 
fond  of  the  broad  green  pasture-lands  of  Somerset,  ami 
she  had  no  desire  to  stay  in  a  house  where  every  one 
regarded  her  with  haughty  and  critical  eyes.  She  was 
extremely  sorry  that  Keynold  Harding  had  so  com- 
pletely disappeared  ;  but,  of  course,  as  there  was  a 
warrant  out  for  his  apprehension,  there  was  nothing 
for  him  to  do  but  to  hide  himself.  It  was  a  pity,  for 
he  had  been  generous  with  his  money,  and  had  plenty 
of  it,  and  really  she  did  not  see  that  he  was  so  much  to 
blame  for  having  killed  poor  Eugene.  She  had  always 
told  Eugene  that  if  he  would  mix  himself  up  in  quar- 
rels with  Keynold,  he  might  expect  to  get  the  worst  of 
it.  It  had  always  been  so  ever  since  they  were  boys 
together.  Eugene  was  the  cleverer  of  the  two  and  the 
most  fiery,  and  sometimes  by  sheer  impetuosity  would 
score  a  victory  against  his  cousin  ;  but  Keynold  always 
got  the  better  of  him  in  time.  He  had  certainly  got 
the  better  of  him  now. 

Nobody  who  knew  Lenore  was  very  much  surprised 
to  hear  the  report  which  went  the  round  of  London 
society  a  year  or  two  later,  that  she  also  had  disap- 
peared from  England,  and  was  living  as  Keynold  Hard- 
ing's  wife  in  some  dimly  gorgeous  palace  in  a  South 
American  city,  where  Harding  was  fast  becoming  a 
millionaire.  He  was  careful  to  avoid  places  where  any 
extradition  treaty  was  enforced,  and  having  lately 
mixed  himself  up  with  politics  to  a  surprisingly  suc- 
cessful extent,  it  is  expected  that  he  will  end  as  Presi- 
dent of  some  queer  little  South  American  Republic, 
where  nobody  will  think  one  penny  the  worse  of  him 


The  End  Crowns  All.  399 

for  shooting  a  man  who  had  come  between  him  and  the 
girl  whom  he  had  wanted  to  make  his  wife. 

It  was  not  until  Annabel  was  more  than  one  and 
twenty  that  she  said  anything  to  Edith  Daunay  about 
returning  to  England.  Edith  herself  would  have  been 
rather  glad  to  go  to  London  now  and  then,  for  it  was 
long  since  she  had  seen  her  brother  ;  and  from  the  re- 
ports sent  her  by  her  friends  she  fancied  that  he  must 
be  working  himself  to  death,  for  every  one  assured  her 
that  he  was  looking  worried  and  ill.  But  from  the 
very  beginning  of  their  wanderings  in  Italy  and  Egypt, 
Annabel  had  tabooed  the  mention  of  Jocelyn's  name. 
Her  girlish  fancy  for  him.  seemed  to  have  been  overlaid 
by  the  burdens  which  she  had  had  to  bear  since  Jane 
Arnold's  death.  Jocelyn  was  too  inextricably  mixed  np 
with  all  that  had  been  most  painful  in  her  life  for  her 
to  wish  even  to  think  of  him.  Yet  perhaps,  after  all, 
Miss  Arnold  and  Dr.  Lechmere  had  both  been  right 
when  they  had  declared  that  they  could  see  within  her 
heart  a  germ  of  love  for  him,  which_ might,  if  undis- 
turbed, take  root  and  nourish,  till,  like  the  mustard 
seed  in  the  parable,  it  became  a  tree  so  large  that  the 
birds  could  sit  and  sing  in  the  branches  thereof,  and 
men  find  rest  and  solace  beneath  its  shade. 

Well,  the  seed  had  lain  dormant  all  this  time,  and 
now,  three  years  later,  it  began  to  stir  and  move  in 
Annabel's  heart  as  if  something  new — she  hardly  could 
tell  what — were  pushing  itself  up  to  the  light.  She 
did  not  even  like  to  examine  the  new  feeling  too 
closely  ;  it  was  a  revival  of  interest,  she  told  herself,  a 
little  growth  of  a  joy  in  life  which  had  long  seemed 
dead  within  her.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she  had  hucj 


4OO  Dau nay's  Tower. 

enough  of  wandering  about  the  world.  Her  duty  lay 
in  England,  where  she  had  lands  and  houses  and  ten- 
ants— people  dependent  upon  her,  and  whom  she  had 
never  thought  about.  It  came  to  her  one  day  with  a 
sudden  shock  that  Eugene  would  have  told  her  she 
was  neglecting  her  duty  to  her  people.  She  seemed 
to  hear  his  voice  calling  to  her  from  the  little  grave 
in  the  churchyard,  "  Come  back,  Annabel  ;  come  back 
to  the  hills  and  the  dales  where  you  spent  your  child- 
hood, and  which  you  know  so  well  ;  come  back  to  the 
people  whom  you  will  learn  to  love  and  serve  ;  come 
back  to  the  little  Cumberland  village  where  I  lived  out 
my  weary,  but  not  useless,  life,  where  your  eyes  will 
again  rest  upon  the  roads  that  you  watched  so -often 
for  my  coming,  where  day  and  night  I  myself  went  up 
and  down,  and  in  and  out  of  the  houses  of  the  poor, 
seeking  in  my  own  rough  way  to  do  a  little  good 
amongst  those  who  toiled,  and  to  relieve  the  pain  of 
those  who  were  suffering  ;  come  back  and  see  for  your- 
self whether  there  is  not  more  work  to  be  done." 

Thus  it  seemed  to  her  that  Eugene's  voice  spoke  from 
the  silence  of  his  resting-place  ;  and  it  was  as  if  drawn 
by  that  mysterious  voice  that  one  day  she  traveled 
northward,  and  came,  after  many  hours  of  journeying, 
to  the  house  which  henceforth  was  to  be  her  home. 
It  had  never  seemed  very  homelike  to  her,  but  when 
she  entered  it  as  its  mistress — she  smiled  rather  sadly 
to  herself  as  she  remembered  that  she  had  once  de- 
clared she  would  never  enter  it  except  as  its  mistn 
she  felt  a  little  thrill  of  affection  for  the  old  pl;u  «• 
which  had  of  late  fallen  into  such  unkindly  hands. 

Edith  was  not  with  her,  for  Annabel  had  preferred 
to  come  alone,  and  she  wandered  from  room  to  room, 


The  End  Crowns  All.  401 

looking  with  interest  at  the  faded  splendors  which  were 
slowly  decaying  from  neglect.  There  was  not  a  room 
which  could  fairly  be  called  habitable,  so  Annabel  went 
to  the  village  inn,  where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grier  were- 
proud  indeed  to  give  her  of  their  best. 

She  slept  in  their  best-room,  where  the  sheets  smelt 
of  lavender  and  a  magnificent  fire  went  roaring  up  the 
chimney,  but  did  not  keep  out  the  sound  of  the  little 
river  as  it  bubbled  over  the  stones  and  under  the  little 
gray  bridge  on  its  way  towards  the  sea.  It  was  Sep- 
tember, and  the  day  was  perfect.  When  Annabel 
awoke  she  wondered  that  she  had  not  remembered  how 
golden  and  mellow  the  sunshine  of  these  northern  lati- 
tudes could  be.  She  sprang  up  early,  and  dressed  her- 
self for  a  walk  ;  she  wanted  to  see  all  her  old  haunts, 
to  visit  the  farmhouse  and  the  churchyard  and  the 
quaint  old  church  of  St.  Andrew's-on-the-Hill. 

A  new  glow  of  life  and  spirits  came  to  her  in  the 
clear,  crisp,  bracing  air.  As  she  ate  her  breakfast  she 
inquired  of  Mrs.  Grier  concerning  all  her  old  friends, 
including  even  Mrs.  Beccles  and  the  cat  Timothy,  who 
were  established  for  life  in  the  little  whitewashed  house 
which  Dr.  Lechrnere  had  called  his  own.  She  heard  a 
great  deal  of  good-natured  gossip  from  the  landlady, 
and  she  was  told  that  the  Moorside  Farm  was  let  to 
some  capable  young  people,  who  were  making  it  pay  as 
it  had  never  paid  before. 

"  I  suppose  they  won't  mind  if  I  ask  to  see  the 
house  ?  "  said  Annabel,  a  little  doubtfully. 

"  Bless  you,  ma'am,  they  will  be  proud  and  honored," 
said  Mrs.  Grier  ;  but  there  was  a  slight  smile  on  her 
face  as  she  stepped  back  to  the  kitchen  and  said  a  word 
in  her  husband's  ear. 
26 


• 

4Q2  Daunay's  Tower. 

"  Now,  if  Miss  Daunay  comes  out  and  begins  talk- 
ing to  you  about  the  farm  where  she  used  to  live,  don't 
you  be  a  fool  and  let  out  that  there  is  a  lodger  at  the 
house  ;  she  mightn't  like  it  or  she  might — there  is  no 
telling,  and  we  have  no  call  to  meddle  with  business 
which  doesn't  concern  us."  And  Grier,  being  a  wise 
man  who  generally  did  what  his  wife  told  him,  nodded 
and  held  his  tongue. 

So  Annabel  went  up  the  white  road  once  more  ;  but 
she  did  not  go  first  to  the  Moorside  Farm,  she  paid  a 
visit  to  a  place  which  was  even  dearer  and  more  sacred 
to  her  than  the  farm.  She  went  to  the  churchyard, 
which  she  had  so  often  visited  with  Eugene  Lechniere 
and  Jane  Arnold  in  days  gone  by.  r  They  were  all  there 
once  again,  though  two  were  laid  beneath  the  wind- 
swept grass,  and  one  only  stood  and  looked  at  the 
green  grass  and  the  blue  sky.  The  place  was  full  of 
tender  memories  for  Annabel.  Here  lay  her  mother  and 
the  baby  sister,  of  whom  she  had  but  lately  heard,  and 
beside  Betha  there  was  Jane  Arnold,  her  faithful  spirit 
now  at  rest ;  and  at  their  feet — where  he  hud  entreated 
to  be  laid — was  the  body  of  Eugene  Lechmere,  and 
the  white  cross  that  rose  above  it  was  an  emblem  to 
Annabel  of  the  life  that  he  had  lived,  as  well  as 
the  faith  which  he  had  kept  in  his  heart  to  the  very 
last. 

She  turned  at  last,  and  for  the  first  time  a  feeling  of 
loneliness  oppressed  her  ;  hitherto  it  had  seemed  to 
her  as  if  the  whole  place  were  pervaded  with  the  spirits 
of  those  who  had  passed  beyond  this  life,  yet  lingered 
round  about  their  old  abodes.  She  had  felt  as  if  they 
were  with  her  all  the  time,  and  now  quite  suddenly  she 
knew  that  their  presences  were  no  longer  near,  and  that 


The  End  Crowns  All.  403 

she  must  face  the  world  alone,  without  their  loving 
eyes  and  hands  to  guide  her. 

The  tears  came  to  her  eyes  as  she  thought  of  these 
things,  and  as  she  halted  for  a  moment  at  the  church- 
yard gate  she  lost  the  glory  of  the  sunshine  around  her 
in  a  mist  of  tears. 

But  how  was  this  ?  She  was  no  longer  alone.  She  had 
not  noticed  a  stranger  on  the  road  ;  it  seemed  as  if  some- 
body had  been  beforehand  with  her  in  visiting  the  old 
churchyard  in  the  dewy  freshness  of  the  September 
morning.  She  turned  aside,  hastily  brushing  the  tears 
from  her  eyes,  and  then,  as  her  vision  cleared,  she  saw 
a  familiar  face  looking  wistfully  into  her  own.  Her 
heart  gave  a  great  bound,  her  pulses  seemed  to  thrill 
with  a  new  sensation,  and  yet — it  was  only  Jocelyn 
Daunay,  looking  a  little  older  and  paler  than  of  yore, 
waiting  for  her  to  speak  to  him  or  to  hold  out  her 
hand  with  a  sort  of  humiliation  which  put  Annabel  to 
shame. 

She  held 'out  her  hands  to  him,  without  exactly 
knowing  what  she  did. 

"  Oh,  I  have  been  so  lonely  !  "  she  said.  "  I  am  so 
glad  to  see  you  here  !  " 

"You  know  that  I  would  have  come  at  any  time,  if 
I  had  been  able  to  fancy  that  you  wanted  me,"  said 
Jocelyn. 

His  eyes  had  lost  their  old  look  of  glad  contentment,  and 
out  of  his  manner  the  old  self-assurance  and  something 
of  boyish  gaiety  had  been  withdrawn,  but  Annabel  felt 
instinctively  that  these  very  losses  made  him  more  of  a 
human  being,  more  able  to  sympathize,  to  understand, 
perhaps  to  love.  "I  am  not  sure  that  I  wanted  you 
until  now,"  paid  Annabel,  slowly  looking  up  at  him 


404  Daunay's  Tower. 

with  eyes  that  almost  took  his  breath  away,  they  were 
so  beautiful  and  so  very  sweet. 

'•  But  you  want  me  a  little  now,"  he  said,  holding 
her  hand  more  tightly,  and  drawing  her  a  little  closer 
to  him. 

"Yes,"  she  said  simply,  "I  do  want  you  now." 
And  she  held  up  her  face  to  be  kissed  with  the  simplic- 
ity of  a  child  ;  and  they  went  down  the  long  white 
road  to  the  village  hand  in  hand. 

"  I  told  you  so,"  said  Mrs.  Grier,  triumphantly,  for 
although  the  lovers'  hands  had  parted  company  before 
they  actually  reached  the  village,  there  was  something 
in  the  air  and  gait  of  the  young  couple  which  told  its 
own  tale  to  Mrs.  Grier's  experienced  eye.  "  Didn't  I 
say  to  you,"  she  remarked  to  her  husband,  "  that  it 
would  be  best  to  let  well  alone  ?  If  we  had  mentioned 
to  Miss  Annabel  that  Mr.  Daunay  was  staying  up  at  the 
Moorside  Farm  she  would  most  likely  never  have  gone 
near  the  place  ;  and  see,  now  they  have  met  by  accident 
like,  they  are  as  happy  as  two  children  with  all  the 
world  before  them." 

"  Well,  it's  a  real  proper,  comfortable  marriage,  that's 
what  I  call  it.  And  each  of  the  Daunays  will  have  a 
share  in  the  old  place,  as  is  but  natural  and  right,  and 
we  shall  have  one  of  the  old  stock  for  master  as  well  as 
mistress,  and  that's  a  blessing.  Who  but  a  Daunay  can 
understand  the  ways  of  this  wild  place  ?  " 

"  There  was  one  who  did,"  said  her  husband,  stolidly, 
"and  understood  them  better  than  any  Daunay,  al- 
though he  was  a  West-conntryman.  But  there — we 
shall  never  see  his  like  again." 

And  that  was,  perhaps,  the  thought  which  recurred 


The  End  Crowns  All.  405 

even  to  Annabel  sometimes,  that  she  would  never  again 
see  a  man  who  was  such  a  guide,  friend,  and  teacher  as 
Ku;ii'iM>  Lechmere  had  been  to  her. 

But,  after  all,  Love  has  a  different  aspect  from  even 
the  most  ideal  friendship,  and  in  the  days  that  were 
yet  to  come  there  was  no  happier  woman  living  than 
Annabel  Daunay  of  Daunay's  Tower. 


THE  END. 


Comrades  True 


By  ANNIE  THOMAS 

354  PaSest  size  7%  x  5i  Cloth,  ink  and  gold,  $1.25. 
This  novel  is  nothing  if  not  up  to  date,  and  if  its  publica- 
tion had  only  been  delayed  a  month  the  fall  of  Tientsin 
would  in  all  probability  have  figured  largely  in  the  closing 
pages.  The  name  is  all  right  as  far  as  a  certain  portion  of 
the  characters  go,  but  the  rest  of  them  are  about  as  untrue 
to  each  other  as  one  could  possibly  imagine,  and  the  readers 
will  make  a  great  mistake  if  they  imagine  those  who  are  en- 
gaged to  be  married  in  the  early  part  of  the  book  have  any 
real  intention  of  actually  marrying.  For  those  who  like  to 
have  their  fiction  people  live,  move,  and  have  their  being 
amid  the  toil  and  trouble  of  everyday  life,  this  story  will, 
without  doubt,  appeal  strongly.  The  English — well,  that 
does  not  matter  so  much  in  books  of  this  class,  and 
the  action  is  so  rapid  and  vividly  realistic  that  one  un- 
consciously overlooks  any  little  mistakes  which  the  author 
may  have  committed  in  her  desire  to  get  the  book  complete 
before  the  war  in  Africa  was  finished. — Phila.  Telegraph. 

"  Comrades  True''  is  a  wide-reaching  romance.  The  list 
includes  impecunious  comrades  —not  well-mated  comrades — 
divorced  and  wanted-to-be-divorced  comrades,  and  their  in- 
felicities are  heard  all  the  way  from  London  to  South  Africa 
on  sea  and  land.  The  reader  will  ever  find  it  difficult  with- 
out tabbing  to  keep  an  account  of  the  divorce  mill.  The 
parties  in  each  contest  are  remarkably  serene,  and  behind 
each  some  other  man  or  woman  appears  in  sight  to  enable 
"  Comrades  True  "  to  bear  a  separation  with  equanimity. 
The  London  Literary  World,  in  noticing  the  book,  says :  It 
cannot  be  complained  that  '•Comrades  True"  is  not  up  to 
date.  The  Boers,  the  imperial  volunteers,  wounds,  and 
nurses  play  a  large  part  in  it,  and  the  author  delivers  herself 
of  plenty  of  such  correct,  if  rash  Saxon  sentiments  as  'I'd 
like  to  face  a  hundred  Boers  single-handed  this  minute,  and 
show  them  what  an  Englishman  can  do  when  his  blood  is  up 
at  insults  offered  to  our  Queen  and  country."  The  story  has 
life  and  movement,  and  seems  to  be  in  line,  and  does  not 
comprehend  the  connubial  infelicities  which  are  threatening 
the  happy  home  life  of  the  world.,— Chicago  Inter-Ocean, 

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A  Rise  in  the  World 


By  ADELINE  SERGEANT 
377  pages,  size  7^^5,  Cloth,  ink  and  gold,  $1.25. 

Miss  Sergeant's  new  novel  has  not  "Adam  Grigson's"  right 
to  consideration,  though  it  is  not  without  a  certain  interest 
for  the  reader  who  has  just  laid  down  the  latter  book.  The 
heroine  of  "A  Rise  in  the  World"  is  a  little  household 
drudge,  kind  hearted,  good  and  unselfish,  but  untaught  and 
illiterate  as  any  other  London  "slavey."  We  do  not  say 
that  it  would  be  impossible  for  this  girl  to  reach  a  high  place 
in  English  society  within  an  absurdly  short  time,  but  it  must 
be  admitted  that  the  transition  as  described  by  Miss  Sergeant 
is  not  convincing.  A  man's  a  man  fora*  that,  but  training,  or 
the  lack  of  it,  and  the  human  being's  evironment  must  count, 
so  that  it  is  not  easy  to  accept  as  a  probable  personage  the 
cockney  servant  who  becomes  a  beautiful  peeress  and  charm- 
ing woman  of  the  world  with  such  startling  rapidity. — N.  Y. 
Tribune. 

In  "A  Rise  in  the  World"  (Buckles)  Adeline  Sergeant 
outdoes  Laura  Jean  Libbey  in  her  efforts  to  bring  her  heroine 
from  the  lowliest  walks  of  life  to  the  height  of  the  social 
world.  She  makes  the  poor  girl,  who  is  a  nursery  maid, 
awkr^rd,  stupid,  stubborn,  and  untidy,  only  granting  her 
the  graces  of  a  kind  heart  and  a  sensible  name,  Elizabeth. 
Of  course,  the  hand  of  every  man  is  against  Elizabeth  as  she 
struggles  to  make  herself  worthy  of  the  position  to  which 
marriage  with  a  gentleman  has  raised  her ;  but  in  time,  by 
the  tender  guidance  of  the  rash  young  man's  unworldly 
mother,  the  girl  becomes  a  marvel  of  feminine  attractive- 
ness. One  by  one  her  enemies  are  laid  low  and  she  forgives 
them  all.  The  story  is  not  quite  so  melodramatic  as  those 
of  its  kind  usually  are.  The  noteworthy  thing  about  it  is 
the  ease  with  which  the  author  removes  immovable  obstacles. 
— Chicago  Tribune 

Readers  of  this  interesting  picture  of  London  society  will 
perhaps  be  impressed  by  the  unevenness  of  its  literary  merit. 
Some  of  the  scenes  are  capitally  done  ;  others  seem  hurriedly 
sketched,  but  the  author's  style  is  always  femininely  incisive. 
Despite  a  few  seeming  improbabilities  in  plot,  the  story  as  a 
whole  is  one  which  has  in  it  an  inevitable  attractiveness,  as 
do  all  accounts  of  real  rises  and  progresses  in  the  world. — 
The  Outlook. 

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A  Ward  of  the  King 

(An  Historical  Romance} 

By  KATHARINE  S.  MAC^UOID 

328  pages,    size   7^x5,    Cloth,    Ink   and    Gold,    $i.2'j 

This  is  a  story  of  the  times  of  the  great  Constable  < 
Bourbon.  Jeanne  d'Acigne"  is  married  when  a  child  to  ihe 
Cotnte  de  Laval.  Adventures  and  the  clash  of  steel  are 
things  masculine,  and  the  woman  cannot  put  enough  muscle 
iato  her  hard  knocks.  But  perhaps  for  this  very  reason  it 
may  be  commended  to  those  gentler  souls  who  shrink  from 
blood  and  wounds ;  and  it  may  be  also  commended  to  those 
who  are  charmed  by  a  singularly  refined  and  feminine  style 
for  its  own  gracious  sake. — London  Literary  World. 

"  A  Ward  of  the  King"  is  a  romance  of  the  time  of  the 
B  nirbon  kings.  The  heroine  is  the  only  child  of  the  Count 
d'Acigne',  dead  when  the  story  opens  ;  tha  heroes,  the  Count 
of  Laval,  whom  she  marries  at  thirteen  at  the  command  of 
the  King  and  her  friend  and  unknown  lover,  Roland,  the 
heir  of  the  Vicomte  d'Orbec  —  both  noble  men  in  truth. 
The  cousin  of  the  Count  of  Laval,  Etiennede  Retz,  conceived 
a  passion  for  the  Countess  Laval  on  her  wedding  day.  This 
leads  to  the  intrigue  about  which  the  story,  full  of  life  and 
fire,  centers.  —  The  Outlook. 

Miss  Katharine  S .  Macquoid  in  her  new  book,  "A  Ward 
of  ths  King,"  has  departed  somewhat  from  the  usual  rule  of 
romance  writers.  She  has  taken  for  the  centre  figure  of  the 
story  a  woman  instead  of  a  swaggering  man.  This  notion, 
however,  must  be  commended  by  the  excellent  manner  in 
which  the  authoress  has  transcribed  it. — Boston  Courier. 

With  the  present  widespread  popularity  of,  and  interest 
in  the  historical  romance,  Katharine  Macquoid's  "  A  Ward 
of  the  King"  is  sure  of  a  hearing.  The  tale  is  worthy  of  the 
encomiums  which  are  being  bestowed  upon  it.  The  story  is 
of  the  Great  Constable  of  Bourbon  ;  its  scenes  and  its  times 
readily  lend  themselves  to  the  play  of  the  romantic  incident 
and  the  weaving  of  skilful  plots.  The  story  is  marked  by  a 
style  of  singular  refinement. — American,  Nov.  16. 

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In  London  s  Heart 

By  GEORGE  R.  SIMS 
435  PaSe5>  size  7%  x  5>  Cloth,  Ink  and  Gold, 
George  R.  Sim's  name  is  associated  with  melodrama,  and  in  his  latest 
novel,  "  In  London's  Heart,"  the  melodramatic  element  is  decidedly  to 
the  fore,  though  lovers  of  exciting  fiction  —  of  stories  where  struggling 
human  nature  and  bad,  bad  villains  produce  hairbreadth  scenes — will  find 
it  made  up  of  absorbing  materials.  The  hero  is  Stephen  Alison,  a  ticket- 
of-leave-man,  etc.,  etc.,  whose  sentence  was  scarcely  the  result  of  his  own 
crime,  and  who  is  anxious,  like  so  many  of  his  own  class  from  poor  Bob 
Brierly  downwards,  to  lead  a  new  life.  The  desire  to  sever  himself  from 
his  old  associates  is  not  so  easy  to  accomplish,  and  gradually  he  falls  into 
bad  company  again.  Having  no  money,  he  agrees  with  some  old  con- 
federates to  accompany  a  dissipated  young  nobleman  abroad,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  killing  him  and  then  claiming  the  insurance  money  which  the 
sharpers  have  already  got  the  victim  to  assign  to  them.  But  before  this 
delightful  little  scheme  can  be  set  actually  working,  the  nobleman  is  mur- 
dered at  his  house  in  Grosvenor  place,  and  suspicion  falls  on  Stephen.  The 
rest  of  the  book  is  a  triumphant  effort  to  clear  Stephen,  and  everybody  is 
finally  punished  or  rewarded  in  due  measure. — Albany  Argus. 

"In  London's  Heart,"  by  George  R.  Sims,  is  the  story  of  an  English 
"  ticket-of-leave "  convict,  who  was  desirous  of  living  a  new  life,  but 
found  it  difficult  to  get  away  from  his  old  associates.  He  returns  to  his  old 
ways,  but  by  an  astonishing  incident  becomes  a  millionaire.  From  that 
time  on  the  sto:r  becomes  highly  sensational,  and  the  reader  who  want* 
"  thrilling  exciteinjnt ' '  gets  it  in  liberal  measure. — Cleveland  Platndcaler. 
"In  London  *  Heart,"  by  George  R.  Sims,  is  another  proof  of  this 
author's  power  to  write  a  good  melodramatic  story.  It  is  full  of  trouble 
and  struggle,  plotting  and  mystery,  critical  situations  and  stirring  incidents. 
Moreover,  it  is  coherent  and  readable  and  will  prove  popular  with  readers  of 
adventurous  fiction. — Rochester  Democrat  and  Chronicle. 

To  begin  with  a  gentlemen  who  is  also  a  ticket-of-leave  man  and  end 
up  *vith  the  same  gentleman  in  his  brother's  place  as  a  millionaire  after  a 
scries  of  the  most  alarming  and  sensational  adventures  is  George  R.  Sims' 
way  of  :elling  "In  London's  Heart."  The  story  is  a  rattler.  It  isn': 
exactly  a  detective  or  mystery  story  ;  but  it  is  the  good  old  melodrama  of 
an  earlier  day  brought  into  the  present  age  for  its  entertainment,  if  not  its 
edification.  There  is  a  detective,  of  course,  but  he  is  friendly  to  the 
gentleman-criminal,  instead  of  being  a  mere  sleuth,  and  the  book  contains 
other  novel  features  which  are  enough  to  delight  a  varied  and  youthful 
audience. — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

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A  Rational  Marriage 

By  FLORENCE  MARRYAT 

296  Pages,  Size  7%  x  5,  Cloth,  Ink  and  Gold,  $1-25. 

A  Rational  Marriage  is  the  title  of  the  book,  which  is  Florence 
Marryat's  latest  contribution  to  her  circle  of  readers.  It  belongs  to 
that  class  of  light  literature  which  is  enjoyed  by  those  who  read  only 
for  the  pleasure  of  the  hour,  and  will,  doubtless,  meet  with  approval 
from  the  novel  reading  public. 

The  story  is  of  a  young  woman  of  rather  Bohemian  proclivities  who 
lives  in  a  flat  and  acts  as  secretary  to  an  elderly  nobleman.  She  has 
"  expectations"  from  her  grandfather,  but  only  in  the  event  of  her  re- 
maining single,  as  the  old  gentleman  has  decided  dislike  for  matrimony. 

How  it  all  turned  out  mav  be  gathered  from  the  book  which  comes 
from  the  publishing  house  of  F.  M.  Buckles  &  Co.,  New  York. 

—  Toledo  Blade,  Feb.  8. 

The  late  Florence  Marryat  had  a  fine  appreciation  of  a  humorous 
situation,  and  she  used  it  to  good  purpose  in  this  story,  which  is  based 
on  a  clandestine  marriage.  When  rooms  are  reserved  at  a  certain  place 
for  "Mr.  and  Mrs.  Smith,1'  and  two  couples  answering  to  that  name 
make  their  simultaneous  appearance,  there  is  apt  to  be  some  explain- 
ing necessary.  The  embarassments  resulting  from  hasty  marriages, 
in  which  there  is  an  object  in  preserving  secrecy  has  been  the  theme 
of  both  novelist  and  playwright,  but  the  lamented  author  of  this  vol- 
ume has  succeeded  in  extracting  about  all  the  humor  and  aggravation 
that  can  be  found  in  the  situation.  Fancy  a  man  having  to  play  a 
game  of  freeze-out  with  his  own  wife  as  the  attraction,  and  yet  not 
daring  to  acknowledge  the  relationship  !  And  the  fact  that  the  man  is 
a  journalist  makes  it  all  the  more  enjoyable. 

The  volume  is  a  handsome  one,  the  cover  design  being  particularly 
attractive.—  Rochester  Herald,  Feb.  9. 

"A  Rational  MP— nage,"  by  the  late  Florence  Marryat,  daughter 
of  the  famous  Captain  Marryat,  is  not  a  strong  story,  but  it  was  written 
with  a  praiseworthy  purpose  that  shines  forth  from  every  page.  The 
purpose  is  to  show  the  magic  power  of  love.  A  clever,  independent 
young  women,  who  has  formed  her  own  conclusions  regarding  matri- 
mony, and  a  bright  young  newspaper  man  enter  into  a  marriage 
agreement  with  the  understanding  that  everything  is  to  go  on  exactly 
as  before  the  ceremonv.  The  young  man  agrees  because  it  is  the  only 
^ray  to  secure  her,  and  they  are  united  by  a  magistrate.  Then  follow 
complications  ;  uneasy  days  and  sleepless  nights,  and  all  the  woes  pos- 
sible to  those  who,  reckoning,  without  love,  enter  the  matrimonial  state 
After  a  judicious  amount  of  trial  and  tribulations  the  clouds  break 
away  for  a  bright  and  satisfactory  ending.  A  few  contrasting  ex- 
amples of  conjugal  bliss  and  single  unhappiness  are  thrown  in  quite 
effectively. — Chicago  Tribune. 

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Hagar  of  the  Pawn-Shop 

By  FERGUS   HUME, 

2<)6  /><*£">  "*e  7)4XS>  Cloth,  J  stampings,  $Z.OO. 

Those  who  like  detective  stories  will  get  much  enjoy- 
ment out  of  the  ten  in  this  book,  which  have  connection 
enough  to  give  them  a  certain  continuity.  Hagar,  a  gypsy 
girl,  has  a  wonderful  personality,  great  shrewdness,  penetra- 
tion, aud  judgment,  beside  being  very  handsome,  dignified 
and  self-respecting.  There  are  ten  different  customers,  each 
of  whom  brings  some  peculiar  article  to  pawn,  and  the  article 
has  a  story  of  its  own,  or  a  very  strange  mystery.  She 
unravels  the  mystery,  brings  criminals  to  their  punishment, 
and  restores  fortunes.  It  is  all  cleverly  done,  and  Hagar's 
sagacity  is  something  to  be  admired.  The  author  is  Fergus 
Hume. — Literary  World,  Nov.  25. 

Hagar  Stanley,  a  gypsy,  and  niece  of  the  dead  wife  of  a 
miserly  old  London  pawnbroker,  is  driven  by  the  unwelcome 
attentions  of  a  gypsy  half-breed  suitor  to  flee  from  her  tribe 
in  the  New  Forest.  She  takes  refuge  with  old  Jacob  Dix, 
the  pawnbroker,  who,  before  his  death,  is  trapped  by  a  cheap 
lawyer  into  trying  unsuccessfully  to  disinherit  his  son  in  favor 
of  Hagar,  who  defeats  the  plot,  only  to  discover  that  th6 
son  is  the  man  who  drove  her  from  the  gypsy  tribe.  The 
adventures  of  the  two  form  the  material  for  Mr.  Hume's  new 
story. — The  Mail  and  Express,  Oct.  26. 

This  is  a  volume  of  detective  stories  by  Fergus  Hume, 
whose  "Mystery  of  a  Hansom  Cab"  w'll  be  recalled  as  a 
clever  bit  of  writing.  Between  "The  Coming  of  Hagar" 
and  ' '  The  Passing  of  Hagar ' '  are  grouped  ten  stories,  each 
bearing  a  separate  interest,  but  each  linked  together  so  that 
they  follow  in  natural  order.  Hagar  is  an  interesting  young 
Gypsy  who  comes  into  charge  of  a  pawn-shop  of  very  doubt- 
ful character  in  a  somewhat  unusual  way.  Her  adventures 
and  those  of  her  customers  are  entertaining  and  lively  and 
the  tales  are  of  a  stirring  character.  When  Conan  Doyle, 
with  Sherlock  Holmes,  lifted  detective  stories  to  a  higher 
plane  than  they  had  occupied  since  the  days  of  Edgar  Allen 
Poe,  he  opened  the  way  for  other  writers  to  explore  the  field. 
Fergus  Hume  has  done  so  with  much  success  ;  and  the  present 
volume  is  sure  of  a  numerous  clientage  among  those  who 
like  the  bizarre  in  fiction. — American. 

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A  Splendid  Sin 


By  GRANT  ALLEN 

?73  P&ges*   s*ze  7}&X5*    Cloth*    Three  Stampings,   $r.oo 

The  title  of  this  book  implies  audacity,  and  in  this  it  is 
true  to  its  teachings.  Mr.  Allen's  independent  line  of  thought 
was  never  more  clearly  defined,  and  the  "splendor"  of  the 
sin  really  takes  our  breath  away.  Mr.  Allen  >vas  always 
perfectly  frank  about  pot  boiling,  and  therefore  took  some 
/round  from  his  critic,  but  he  never  lost  his  power  to  tell  an 
Mtertaining  story,  no  matter  how  startling  or  improbable  it 
was,  nor  with  what  rapidity  he  dashed  it  off.  "  The  Woman 
Who  Did"  was  a  difficult  heroine  to  accept,  but  even  she  is 
mild  compared  to  Mrs.  Egremont's  achievements  in  the  line 
of  independent  action  in  "A  Splendid  Sin."  It  would  be  a 
pity  to  take  the  zest  from  the  reader  by  outlining  the  plot, 
whose  chief  charm  lies  in  its  surprises.  Sufficient  to  say  that 
here  is  a  problem  novel  with  a  vengeance,  and  the  spectacle 
of  an  illegitimate  son  ordering  his  mother's  lawful  husband 
out  of  her  house  in  righteous  indignation  at  his  existence  is 
an  example  of  advanced  thought  rarely  met  with  in  every- 
day life.  —  The  Commercial  Advertiser^  Nov.  18,  1899. 

"  A  Splendid  Sin,"  by  Grant  Allen,  has  just  been  pub- 
lished by  F.  M.  Buckles  &  Co.  It  is  one  of  the  latest  works 
written  by  the  noted  author,  of  whose  untimely  death  we 
have  just  learned.  It  will  be  treasured  as  one  of  his  best 
novels  by  the  large  number  of  readers  who  peruse  with  inter- 
est all  productions  from  his  pen.  It  is  a  study  of  an  act 
which  is  universally  condemned  as  a  sin.  Not  in  itself  as  a 
saving  power,  but  its  disclosure  comes  to  an  illegitimate  son 
as  a  blessing,  making  a  happy  marriage  possible,  and  savh  g 
all  concerned  from  disgrace  and  misery.  Even  the  sin  itself 
is  made  to  appear  lovely  and  proper  in  comparison  with  that 
other  sin  which  the  world  readily  excuses,  namely,  the  forc- 
ing of  a  marriage  where  there  is  no  true  love  or  mutual  re- 
spect. It  is  a  story  to  please  by  its  plot  and  action  and  char- 
acter drawing,  and  also  to  set  one  thinking  upon  some  of  the 
serious  problems  of  life. 

— Evening  Telegram ,  N.  Y.t  Nov.  9, 

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